Loud has his North Hibernian tongue
Upon the Byward market rung
For six and thirty years; in truth,
I’ve known him since the days of youth,
John Litle can my tale review
Of Denis, he will find it true. 
And John Macdonald, of the Isles,
With face clad in perennial smiles,
Knight of the knock-down hammer, he
Claims passing notice now from me—­
A well read man, for truth to tell,
He studied Burns and Byron well;
And which two of the wizard few
Have touched with tuneful hand so true. 
The throbbing pulses of the soul,
Which vibrate ’neath their wild control. 
Friend John Macdonald, here’s my hand,
Thou relic of the vanished land! 
Michael McBean I can’t pass by,
He kept of old a grocery—­
Just opposite McDougal’s gate,
Where the big auger hangs in state. 
Richard McCann, too, did abide
In peace the Sappers’ Bridge beside,
In house we ne’er shall see again,
Once tenanted by Andrew Main—­
A cannie, sober, honest Scot,
Was Andrew Main—­an humble lot,
With patient industry he bore,
Till fortune smiled, and then a store
He opened, in extensive way,
Where William Fingland keeps to-day. 
Peter A. Egleson to boot,
The young idea how to shoot,
On George Street north, in days gone by
Taught in his own academy;
At length the birch he threw aside,
And floated proudly on the tide
Of commerce—­and his name appears
Where it was found in other years. 
Next Richard Thomas comes to view,
And Nat and Jonas Barry too,
All plasterers of the old time
Who made their bread by sand and lime. 
Joachim Valiquette, a baker,
And Joseph Valiquette, shoemaker,
A votary of the rod and line
When summer evenings are fine,
He like a nightingale can sing
A holy strain—­as well as bring
From well known spot—­a goodly string
Of fish upon a Thursday night
That Friday may be kept all right. 
Gone is our friend Peter Riel
Whom old Bytonians once knew well;
An innocent good man was he,
Given sometimes to a little spree;
Once member of the Council here,
He gave forth many a loyal cheer,
And sat triumphal carriage on,
In state with Queen Victoria’s Son,
When Albert Edward came this way
A royal visit here to pay. 
My song complete would not appear
Unless “the Major’s” name were here;
His regimental number now
I can’t recall—­but this I know,
He bravely marched with battle brand
Among the guardians of the land,
Ready alike to fall or stand
As duty’s accents gave command;
Far might yon seek, and find not then
A soul more genial amongst men,
A lot unmarked by mortal ills
Is all I wish to Major Wills.

CHAPTER VII.