Gone is its fair renown of yore,
It’s schoolboy battles all are o’er,
Which made it then a “Campo Bello”
For many an embryo daring fellow—­
Too young to know what men of sense
Have called the art of self-defence;
There buttons flew, from stitching riven,
Black eyes and bloody noses given—­
Even conflicts national took place,
Among old Bytown’s youthful race. 
Why not? for children bigger grown
I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown
For cause as small, and launch’d afar
The fierce and fiery bolts of war,
Simply to find out which was best. 
Caesar or Pompey by the test. 
In those past combats “rich and rare”
Luke Cuzner always had his share. 
For Luke in days of auld lang syne
Did most pugnaciously incline,
Never to challenge slack or slow,
And never stain’d by “coward’s blow.” 
The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter,
In battle’s path did seldom falter,
But “Jimmy,” in those days of grace
Held a peacemaker’s blessed place,
Nor has he wander’d far astray
From the same calm and tranquil way. 
The belt was worn by any one
Who had the latest battle won,
’Till Simon Murphy’s springing bound
Lit on that ancient battle ground,
And from that hour he was King
Of our young pugilistic ring! 
But here I’d like to pause a minute
And go to Hull—­there’s something in it
That to the hour of life’s December
I shall endeavor to remember. 
The old “Columbian” schoolhouse, where
In childhood’s dawn I did repair;
It was a famous strict old school
Sway’d by the ancient birchen rule,
The place where youthful ignorance brought us,
The spot where famed James Agnew taught us;
A Scot was he of good condition,
A man of nerve and erudition,
A strict disciplinarian, who
Knew well what any boy could do,
And woe to him who did not do it
For he got certain cause to rue it. 
No sinner ever dreaded Charon,
Nor was the mighty rod of Aaron,
By ancient Egypt’s magic men,
In Pharoah’s old despotic reign,
More feared as symbol of a God
Than was by us James Agnew’s rod;
With it he batter’d arithmetic,
Lore practical and theoretic
Latin too, and English grammar
Into your head, a perfect “crammar,”
Was Agnew’s most persuasive rod,
Nor less his magisterial nod. 
How would such stern tuition suit
In our Collegiate Institute? 
Amongst the unforgotten few
Who rise to memory’s magic view,
While winging on her backward flight,
My schoolfellow, Alonzo Wright,
Appears a lad of slender frame,
I cannot say he’s still the same,
Except in soul, for that sublime
Has soar’d above the touch of time,
And in “immortal youth” appears,
Unchanged by circumstance or years,
A good fellow, this was his name
At school, methinks he’s still the same. 
May he give powers of swift volition
To all who offer opposition