From where his school James Elder kept,
In that old house remembered well,
After, as Joseph Kirk’s Hotel,
Ere it was haunted by a sound
Which shed such melody around,
Sweet almost as the songs of Zion,
From violin of Robinson Lyon,
Who drew such music from its strings,
Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings,
And Irish jigs in variation,
As made one feel that “all creation”
Could scarcely match his wizard spell,
’Twas he that played the fiddle well! 
And Edward Malloch, gone to rest,
Was not the worst, nor yet the best,
Perhaps, ’mongst those of other days
To whom I dedicate these lays. 
I knew him well in ’25,
When Richmond Village was alive,
While Bytown’s head was scarcely seen,
Emerging from the forest green. 
A captain of Artillery
In ’37’s hot time was he,
When Louis Joseph Papineau
Sought British power to overthrow;
And William L. McKenzie tried
O’er loyalty and truth to ride;
Each found the path, for what he wanted,
Too hot to walk in—­and “levanted;”
Von Shoultz, a soldier abler, riper,
Remained behind and “paid the piper!”
Even I, poetic man of peace,
Have often marched and stood at ease,
Beside the Richmond guns, brought here
To thunder o’er the Grande Chaudiere,
At the great Union celebration,
The new bridge’s inauguraton;
One thing is certain, those brass guns
Were ne’er seen more by Richmond’s sons. 
They fell prey to official nabbing,
And Governmental red tape grabbing,
Like plunder from the vanquished harried,
To Montreal off they were carried! 
Malloch was member many a year
For Carleton when votes were not dear—­
When damaged eyes, and smashed proboscis
Would follow, as the smallest losses. 
The offer of a vile bank note
As price of an elector’s vote. 
Gold, said the sage, perhaps ’twas law,
On Dian’s lap the snow can thaw;
And gold has purchased many a seat
Where the “collective wisdom” meet,
And many go to represent
The weight of cash corrupt which sent
Them wandering wickedly astray
From honor’s seldom trodden way. 
Where now, is Turner, who of yore,
Kept school near the old Ottawa’s shore? 
And Heath who came across the line
In able teaching here to shine? 
And old John Stilman, who shoes made,
And flourished in St. Crispin’s trade? 
William McCullough, where is he? 
Gone to the unknown country—­
A steady, harmless, quiet man,
Who here in ’32 began
A race unmixed with hate or strife,
Which ended only with his life. 
And Reuben Traveller, who’s tongue
Oft in the old assizes rung—­
Though given to mirth, a wondrous crier,
Who lived near John Sweetman, the dyer
’Twas all the same, for either side
Or both old Reuben Traveller cried—­
Cried for the man who won law’s race—­
Cried for the man who lost his case—­
Cried for the criminal acquitted—­