And Henry Bishoprick, a wise man,
Who acted druggist and exciseman,
And seized at loaded pistol’s muzzle
Contrabandistas, who could puzzle
An ordinary Gager’s cunning
When tea and whiskey they were running.
And William Henry Baldwin, too,
Who first appeared in public view
At the old Albion, where in state,
Bob Graham rules the roast of late;
Son of a U.E. Loyalist,
Who found his way out of the mist
Republican which played such tricks
With loyalty in ’76,
He came, as many another came
To Canada, in Britain’s name,
To live his life and die beside
The flag that’s still his country’s pride!
Thomas Gillespie Burns, “T.G.,”
I have not quite forgotten thee;
Thou wert an early importation
From Erin’s Isle, and thy migration
Did little damp in heart or hand
Thy love for the old parent land,
Who’s green is greener in its pride
Of bloom than all the world beside!
Thy boast has always been true blue—
To British institutions true!
And William Rogerson, ’tis well
That I of him should something tell—
A tall, majestic, looking son
Of Caledonia—he was one,
In early times, who carried on
The lumber traffic with a will,
When such names as Price and McGill
Were standards in the staple trade
Which Bytown Ottawa hath made.
And William Dunning, who kept store
The first old County Gaol before,
Where now the Albion proudly stands
And flourishes in other hands,
And Clements Bradley, who lived near
The border long ago, was here;
An agriculturist of yore,
Who settled near the Rideau’s shore,
And opened ’mid primeval trees
A pathway for the passing breeze.
Full half a century has flown
Since the first tree he tumbled down,
And yet his strength seems still unspent,
His step is firm, his back unbent.
Pierre Rocque, thou ancient man of stone!
I had almost let thee alone;
But ’twere not well to leave behind,
A man of such a rocky kind;
Thy Christian name is stone—that’s hard,
Rock is thy surname, saith the Bard
Thou art an adamantine card.
And Baptist Cantin, too, it seems,
Appears ‘mongst recollections’ dreams,
A carpenter of worth and note,
Who ne’er asked sixpence for his vote.
Helaire Pinard presents his face,
And cheerfully I give him place,
A quiet, rare man, be it known,
Who minds no business but his own.
Joseph Paquette, to thee I give
A line to make thy memory live,
’Mid earliest recollections, thou
Art not the one least thought of now;
Something far better than mere fame
Is thine, it is an honest name!
Thomas E. Woodbury, who made
Tin cans and stovepipes, when the trade
And town was in an infant state,
Back in the days of ’28.
And Fletcher, an old Yankee, who