Doctor Stratford I behold,
Who foolishly I thought deemed best
To emigrate towards the West,
And leave behind a work which few
Could with a single lancet do
When venesection—­old idea,
Combined with the Phamacopeiae
Was patent as a panacea
For almost every mortal ill,
Like calomel jalap, or blue pill. 
He disappeared from healing fame,
And young Edward Vancortlandt came;
For he was young and active, too,
When first he met the minstrel’s view,
And striding rapidly did go
Along full forty years ago! 
VanCortlandt’s had a long career
Since first he bled and blistered here;
His own hand hath his fortune made—­
His own hand the foundation laid—­
And if success, with hoards of wealth
He has not now—­the public health
Has never suffered at his hand;
Nor has the mystic spirit land
Been peopled by the shades of those
Who in their last dissolving throes,
Gave evidence that power to kill
Was mingled with Vancortlandt’s skill—­
When to that distant coast he’ll steer,
No crowd of ghosts will hover near,
And cry out.  “Van, you sent us here!”
Edward McGillivray, how is this,
That I by accident should miss
So long an ancient name like thine,
’Twould be unpardonable, if mine
The fault to leave thy well-known name
Unwritten in my roll of fame? 
Bytown was young, and so wert thou,
Years long before the “Shannon’s” prow
Cleft Ottawa’s bosom on her way
To Grenville in our early day. 
No steam whistle’s discordant yell
Shrieked on the evening zephyr’s swell;
But from her deck the cannon’s din
Told Bytown that the boat was in,
And at the sound the signal man
His banner up the flagstaff ran. 
It was a good old time when thou
Bought beavers at a price which now,
When beaver skins are somewhat rare,
Would cause even Chauncey Bangs to stare. 
Yes, ’twas a fine old time for trade,
Money was plenty—­easy made,
And thou wert, aye, a canine blade. 
Patrick Delaney home has gone
From earthly toil, and he was one
Of those who in the distant past,
His lot in Upper Town had cast. 
James Elder, a majestic Scot! 
On whom of old it was my lot
To look with veneration’s eye. 
Kept Bytown’s staid academy;
And here I dwell with fond delight,
And view again with memory’s sight
The stately teacher in his chair,
King of the throng assembled there. 
Now Allan Cameron comes to view,
And William Stubbs, there he is too. 
Wellington Wright, too, I behold,
And wild Jack Adamson, the bold. 
The Anderson’s, both James and John,
And Stephen Lett, my mother’s son,
Who stood upon Parnassus’ crown
By might of Genius, and looked down
To where with errant steps I strayed
Around its base beneath the shade. 
And many more were pupils there,
Where are they? “echo answers, where?”
In fancy I away have stepped