’Tis true the tallow-candle’s light
Was all the ray that cheered the night,
Before our first assizes term
Was dignified by actual sperm—­
The real thing—­no “Belmont’s” then
Were found among the sons of men. 
Another name remembrance brings,
The muse of old John Darcey sings,
In numbers almost a magician—­
A wonderful arithmetician,
Whose mode with all others “collided,”
Who added, multiplied, divided,
And even substracted by such rules
As ne’er were known or taught at schools. 
No learned professor of the birch
E’er left John Darcey in the lurch;
No pedagogue was ever able
To con his arithmetic table. 
And Edward Darcey—­no relation—­
Except in name, to old Equation,
A son of Crispin, a sole nailer,
Who owned a curly dog called “Sailor”—­
A noble, liver-hue’d retriever,
Who’d make one almost a believer
In canine intellectual merit
Which dogs as well as men inherit. 
Louis Pinard, in ancient times,
Was always ready with the “dimes”—­
Excuse the slang—­which a disgrace is—­
At gallopping or trotting races,
And A.P.  Lesperance beside him,
A good horse kept, and well could ride him,
When horsemanship was more in fashion
Than sitting still and laying lash on,
In four-wheeled vehicle at ease,
Which modern Jehuism doth please. 
And Galipean, who kept good whiskey,
And old Jamaica to make frisky
The visitors to his retreat,
On the east side of Sussex Street,
Close to the very spot, I think,
Where now James Thompson deals in mink,
Otter and other kinds of fur,
Prime and unprime, without demur. 
’Twas at this inn one afternoon
In ’33, the month was June,
That Martin Hennessy once tried
On horseback up the stairs to ride. 
And would have done so, but for this,
A pistol shot that did not miss,
Which gave him, oh, most foul disgrace! 
A charge of buckshot in the face,
Which spoiled his beauty without doubt. 
And knocked his “dexter peeper” out. 
And E.S.  Lyman, old cathartic! 
With lengthy form and features arctic—­
Dispenser of blisters, pills and potions,
Boluses and specific lotions,
And panaceas in variety
To cram the ailing to satiety—­
Succeeded Auld, Apothecary,
A scientific quoiter, very,
Who righted phisiologic faults
With Calomel and Epsom Salts,
And made prescriptions up with skill
Of aqua pura, which doth still
Maintain its place as chief ingredient,
In every mixture, quite expedient,
He kept his drug shop at the spot
Where hospitality has got
Her Shiboleth from land of Tara,
Under the rule of Pat.  O’Meara! 
And Richard Kneeshaw, man of science,
Who placed in reason such reliance,
As made him almost think salvation
Could not be found in revelation: 
Chemist and druggist by profession,
He held within his mind’s possession
Vast stores of knowledge, ever breeding