A mighty advocate of leather—­
A solemn man too, when required. 
With healing instincts deeply fired,
He with claw-instrument could draw
Teeth deftly from an aching jaw,
And ready was his lancet too
When nothing short of blood would do;
Relieved he many a racking pain,
When shall we see his like again? 
And William Tormey, stern and straight,
A man who came ere ’28,
Chief of the men who kept the fire on
And hammer’d the strong bands of iron,
Which first securely bound together
The old lock gates through wind and weather,
The old Town Council minutes bear
The record that his name is there. 
And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise
I gave him in my early days
For bread, that Eve might tempted be
To eat, had it grown on that tree,
On which hung the forbidden fruit
Whose seed gave earth’s ills their sad root. 
Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven
In the old days of ’27,
With “Jemmy Lang,” an ancient Scot,
Who ne’er the barley bree forgot;
An honest, simple man was he
As ever loved good company;
And Tom McDermott, while I twine
The names of yore in song of mine,
Can I forget a name like thine? 
Ah, no! although thine ashes rest
Beneath our common mother’s breast,
No name more spotless doth engage
My muse, or grace my tuneful page. 
Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt,
Below the present Bywash dwelt,
Beside John Cowan, o’er whose grave
The grass of ’32 did wave. 
No man got in a passion faster
Than did old Bytown’s first postmaster;
Yet was he a most upright man,
And well the old machinery “ran”
When mail bags came on horse’s back
Before we had a railway track,
And their arrival on each morn
Was signall’d by an old tin horn. 
Peace to his shade! in ’32
The cholera Matthew Connell slew. 
Kind reader, let me pass awhile,
Beside the “Bywash,” deem’d so vile,
Then called “the Creek”—­though now the pest—­
The festering miasmatic nest
Of Boards of Health, who dread infection—­
My very heart’s sincere affection
Clings fondly to that old creek still;
For oft in boyhood’s joyous thrill,
O’er its ice-bosom in wild play
I chased the ball in youth’s bright day. 
With young companions loved and dear! 
How few of such, alas! are here
To listen to the bye-gone story
Of the old Creek’s vanish’d glory! 
’Twixt “wooden lock” and Rideau Street,
Young Bytown oft was wont to meet—­
To struggle in the “shinny game;”
Ah! then it was a place of fame,
Full sixty feet from shore to shore,
While now it measures scarce a score;
Modern improvement has prevail’d—­
Its fair proportions are curtail’d;
Its banks filled in, more space to gain. 
Its stream, by many a filthy drain,
Which once was rapid, always clear,
Changed into color worse than beer,
To cool and icy scowling scan,
Of rigid, total abstinence man.