He was in his life’s early day,
He shewed his claims to education
In County Council legislation,
Where he in intellectual pride
Sat long by Hamnett Pinhey’s side,
Our Local Parliament’s since then
Have seldom witnessed two such men
Paymaster Rudyerd, too, I scan,
A most important gentleman,
Who carried in the days of old
The Governmental bags of gold;
Yet never did one less resemble
He, of the twelve who did dissemble,
And for the thirty pieces paid,
His master cruelly betrayed. 
And John McCarthy, who can say
That he’s a man of yesterday? 
Through the dim maze of vanished year
His name to memory appears,
A dealer in strong leather ware
That stood the worst of wear and tear
Since paths of ’27 he trod,
His eye hath seen the grassy sod
O’er many a friend—­let’s hope no foe—­
With whom he started long ago,
In the long race down life’s steep hill
On which he treads securely still. 
Captain Letreton, too, I see,
An officer of high degree. 
The owner, ere the days of rats,
Of that wide district called “the Flats”
In modern times, where I behold,
A pinery as in days of old. 
And Isaac Firth, an old John Bull,
Of milk of human kindness full,
Of rotund form and smiling face,
Who kept an entertaining place
For travel-worn and weary fellows
Who landed where Caleb S. Bellows,
Out on “the Point” his habitation
Built in a pleasant situation,
Before the days when piles of lumber
Did first fair nature’s face encumber;
Quite near the spot where first with skill
John Perkins built his little mill,
Where Philip Thompson many a year
Ago, commenced his bright career,
And took the ebbing of the tide,
Which into golden waves did glide;
He man’d his craft and steered her well
O’er placid calm and tossing swell,
And independent of the gale
Hath snap’d his oar and furled his sail. 
’Twas just above “the whitefish hole,”
How dear that spot is to my soul! 
There Allan Cameron and I
Together many a day did hie,
To haul the silvery shining prey
From out the whirling eddy’s spray;
In July, ’32, to land,
I drew two barrels with my own hand,
The trophies of the hook and line
In the dear days of auld lang syne
That was the fatal month and year
When cholera was rampant here;
Malignant Asiatic type,
Which from the book of life did wipe
The name of many a sturdy one
’Twixt rise and setting of the sun. 
Dread terror brooded o’er the land,
While the destroying angel’s hand
Smote here and there each deadly blow,
Which laid in dust the proudest low! 
As I remember—­those fared worst,
Who in that dismal time were curst
With dangerous and insatiate thirst. 
And H.V.  Noel, surely here
His name is worthy to appear;
’Mongst those whom I so long have known,
Tis strange that he has not outgrown