From the upright and exemplary,
At Corcoran’s corner, now the stand
For carters, very near at hand,
Dwelt one who’s unforgotten name
Is worthy of poetic fame;
With scientific sleight he bled,
And then anatomized the dead. 
With hand so wonderfully skill’d,
Victims delighted to be killed,
Came willingly to yield up life,
An offering to Tom Hickey’s knife;
So high his sense of honor ran,
The butcher in the gentleman
Merged so completely, you’d be lost,
Which in him to admire the most;
By ancient poets it was sung
Those whom the gods love all die young,
Tom Hickey’s early death did prove
That those die young whom all men love. 
I must not here omit the name
Of Heubach from my roll of fame,
He passes under memory’s scan
A simple minded honest man,
With manners quiet, mild and bland,
An emigrant from fatherland. 
And Joseph Nadeau, far and near
Famed ’mongst the boys for good La Tir
And old John Cochran stern and tall,
Immoveable as a stone wall! 
Staunch to his principles stood he,
No matter what the cost might be;
Oh! for a few of his old stamp,
To trim with fire the waning lamp! 
And Louis Grison, worthy man,
In “Maville’s village,” first began
His little trade, which wider spread
As ancient Bytown went ahead. 
Two rows of houses built of wood,
Near Enoch Walkley’s brewery stood
With narrow little street between,
This was the village that I mean. 
Then William Graham kept the peace
Of all the town with perfect ease;
Potato whiskey then was cheap,
And we had little peace to keep. 
Such monstrous practice was unknown
As kicking when a man was down,
Though many a stunning blow was felt,
None ever struck below the belt;
The ring was form’d, and fair play
Reign’d without challenge at each fray,
And never yet, that I could hear,
Did constable e’er interfere,
Or even think that amongst crimes
Rank’d this brave pastime of old times. 
Then Martin Hennessy was young,
A Hercules with sinews strung;
You might as well an anvil “lick,”
Or stand against a horse’s kick
And fear not shattered rib or jaw
As risk a smash from Martin’s paw. 
I’ve seen him in the days of yore
His fist crash through a panel door. 
Martin soon ran his wild race out,
For “Doctor” Whitney with a “clout”
Of a great bludgeon laid him out
Heady for post mortem and bier,
Thus ended Martin’s rough career. 
Ah! those were happy halcyon days,
Well worthy of immortal lays. 
Here I must summon from the band
Of the departed shadowy land
George Parsons, and his name entwine
In this poetic wreath of mine. 
Beside the creek his name I meet
On the west side of William street,
Twas called “the lane,” ere legislation
Gave it its present designation;
Admirers of steeds fleet and game