And wondering mortals to admire,
Tis gone!  I saw its flame expire. 
And John R. Stanley was among
Old Bytown’s well remembered throng,
Whom memory’s tuneful measure bears
Back from the shades of other years. 
R.W.  Cruice in ancient days
Was fond of mirth and sporting ways;
I had almost forgot to tell
How he on horseback cut a swell,
And made a fleet and daring rush
At Barry’s hunt and won “the brush,”
When sportsmen gathered full of glee
Around the famed J.P., M.D. 
And here diverging from my road
Into a little episode,
I’ll tear at once with gesture brief
From memory’s book a comic leaf,
A tale from cobweb’s volume hoary
Of this Sangrado in his glory,
Many will recollect the story. 
Edward Barry, grave J.P.,
Sometimes was given to a spree,
Which interfered with the precision
Of magisterial decision. 
So Edward Barry jumped the hedge
And took the frigid temperance pledge;
But soon the Justice of the Peace
Found himself often ill at ease;
Pains through his gastric regions ran,
Too hard even for a temperance man. 
Then Barry M.D., in a trice,
Gave Barry J.P. an advice,
After a careful diagnosis,
Which placed him on a bed of roses,
And eased his pains beyond description—­
A dose of brandy the prescription—­
Oft as required to be repeated—­
With which the learned J.P. was treated;
And history affirms that he
Oft took the prescribed remedy. 
John Cameron, oft called “Black John,”
Comes o’er my dream of old, as one
Who should not now forgotten be
In this memorial strain by me,
In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds
To the Chaudiere with certain bounds,
Oft chased the anther’d buck before
Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa’s shore. 
He was a sportsman keen and true,
Who dearly loved the “view halloo!”
And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk
Dwelt ’neath the shadow of the “birk;”
And Isaac Cluff appears in view,
A loyalist, both staunch and true;
James “Kennedy, the carter,” too,
Who the first truck through Bytown drew
With the assistance of a horse,
I mean, to be exact, of course. 
And “old Ben.  Rathwell,” now I’ve hit on,
A true and honest hearted Briton,
As ever crossed Atlantic’s wave
To found a home and find a grave. 
And William Colter now doth rise
Before my retrospective eyes,
A saddler far from democratic—­
Professor most aristocratic,
In art which claims the highest feather
Among the fashioners of leather;
An active springing step had he
As now his form appears to me;
Early he went to that far bourne
“From whence no travellers return.” 
Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way,
And tell me how you feel to-day? 
You thought I’d pass and let you go,
Old twisted groove! but ’tis not so,
Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre. 
I’ll touch you off now in short metre.