’Tis long since first your eye, my man,
Along the rifle barrel ran;
The “crotch” or “globe” was all the same,
If you could only see the game. 
Or the “bulls-eye,” the missile flew
Into its centre straight and true,
In the old days when practiced eye
Was light, shade and trajectory. 
Does your keen eye obey your will,
Is your hand quite as steady still
As when you knocked the turkey’s o’er,
At twenty rods in days of yore? 
My blessing day and night upon
The memory of the time that’s gone. 
And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there
He stands before my vision, where
In youth I used to see him stand
On Barrack Hill with cane in hand. 
For many a year ere death’s disaster
He held the post of Barrack Master,
And amongst people who reflected
Most highly always was respected. 
I had almost forgotten one
Who’s name should not be left alone
In dark oblivion’s envious shade
While I the silent past invade—­
To light up the forgotten gloom;
To rescue from time’s early tomb
And touch with friendly hand, and give
To fading memories power to live. 
’Mongst men of enterprising fame,
I can’t pass George Buchanan’s name;
He built our first old timber slide,
Down which the red pine cribs did glide;
And afterwards with strength and skill,
And an indomitable will,
At the great Rapids of the Chats,
Suspended nature’s changeless laws,
And by an artificial path
Triumphed o’er the cataract’s wrath! 
While standing quietly on shore,
Watching the freight the current bore,
A sudden crash from careless oar
Ended his enterprising life,
And made a widow of his wife. 
The public mourned, its great heart bled,
With genuine sorrow for the dead. 
’Tis but as yesterday to me,
The history of that tragedy. 
Ere to the fair green now I go,
I’ll stir up the old “Buffalo.” 
John Heney, who his mark has made
In speculation’s shifting trade,
And built up with both brick and stone,
Memorials, which, when he is gone,
In Ottawa will securely stand,
Proofs of his enterprising hand. 
Some years ago in learned debate,
In Council Hall he sat in state. 
And in his record there you’ll find,
Nothing unfriendly or unkind. 
And while as gently I jog on,
I cannot, pass by “honest John!”
“Shaun Rhua,” designating name,
Who from the County Cavan came,
And in the Upper Town first started. 
Young, enterprising, and light hearted. 
At Civic Board for many a year,
For By Ward doth his name appear;
And I can say, who ought to know,
As far as my researches go,
No public act has stain left on
The well-earned name of “honest John!”
Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same,
Speak kindly of John Heney’s name. 
Mark Bishoprick has gone at last,
An aged pilgrim from the past,
Burdened with many years he stood
Almost alone in solitude,
A record of an age that’s gone,
Who’s lengthened shadow rested on
The present, ere the distant light
Sunk into everlasting night.