The friendship of the early few
Into who’s confidence he grew,
By the unchanging honest course
He steered for better or for worse,
Well has he worn, long may he bear
Up stoutly ’gainst the world’s care! 
John Cruickshank of the kirk, who prayed
Beneath the old white birch’s shade—­
The old white birch—­that sacred trust! 
Improvement’s hand hath to the dust
Upturned to make frontal space
For temple of more modern grace,
A grander altar than of yore,
The ancient “Black mouth’s” knelt before. 
And Robert Sheriff, stately man,
Who the Crown Timber Office “ran”—­
To use a well worn Yankee phrase
Unknown in Bytown’s early days. 
And A.J.  Christie, what shall I
Say of this old celebrity? 
An M.D. of exceeding skill
Who dealt in lancet, leech and pill,
Cantharides and laudanum, too,
When milder measures would not do;
A polished scholar and a sage,
A thinker far before his age,
A writer of sarcastic vein
And philosophic depth, who’s train
Of thought was comprehensive, deep,
Peace to his ashes! let him sleep! 
In ancient times his prophet eye
Saw Bytown’s future destiny,
Fools laughed and disbelieved the seer
Who’s second sight saw triumph near—­
A scene which fortune did fulfil
The Parliament on “Barrack Hill!”
And Lawyer Hagerman I knew,
When lawyers little had to do—­
Their briefs were few, their fees were brief,
And brief had been their Sunday beef,
Had they nought else to fill their maw
Than the proceeds of briefless law;
For litigation had not then
Curst Bytown’s early race of men! 
And Robert Drummond, Engineer,
Who built across the “Grande Chaudiere”
The old “Swing Bridge,” which many a day
Amid the “Kettle’s” curling spray,
From side to side did gently sway. 
The adamantine iron tether
Which chained two provinces together,
Ere legislation’s fiat came
With moral might to do the same. 
Well’s and McCrea of lumbering note,
Who had on many a stream afloat
Vast rafts of red pine timber, when
White pine was little thought of; then
Oak, elm, cedar and red pine
And staves, together did combine,
With now and then a mast or spar,
To make up what would go at par,
At Stadacona—­old Quebec—­
Where brave Montgomery got a check
In a most bootless, foolish strife,
Which cost him his undaunted life—­
Where Arnold got a broken thigh,
Ere at West Point his treachery
Brought Major Andre without hope
To Washington’s relentless rope! 
To Wolfe I’d like to wander back,
But ’twill not do, so to my track
I now reluctantly return,
Who next is ready for the urn? 
Adam Hood Burwell is the man,
An English Churchman he began,
But ended a most shining light,
A mystic, full-fledged Irvingite,
With pinions rustling for a sphere
Of usefulness he found not here.