And John McGraves, the chandler, why Could I so long have passed him by? By accident I've turned a leaf Which brings him out in bold relief A plain and unassuming man Was John; his candles never ran. And many in this ancient place Owed him a debt for a clean face. William Kipp, too, doth memory greet, In a small shop on Rideau Street, A man of gentlemanly kind, With a well-cultivated mind; And Commissary Strachan, too, And Oriel, who had much to do Paying the debts of Waterloo, And many another battle field Where Britons fought and did not yield. And old John Ring, "good gracious me!" I had almost forgotten thee-- Thou "Silky" John of other years, Gone from this dreary vale of tears, A passing shade, and more's the pity, For thou wert ever gay and witty. And Charles Baines, an old time lawyer, Stood here professional top sawyer; He owned a bull dog, arrant thief! Who plundered Agar Yielding's beef; And when friend Yielding sought for law, To deal with canine of such maw, "Why, there is just one simple way," Said Charley, "Make the owner pay;" "I thank you for your judgment brief," Said Agar, "pay me for the beef." "Seven and sixpence worth of prog, Was bolted by _your_ big bull dog." "All right," said Charley, like a flash, And quickly handed o'er the cash; But, as friend Yielding turned to go, "Come back," said Charley, "for you owe Just seven and sixpence for advice, So hand it over in a trice." While on the past I now reflect, I well and clearly recollect John Wilson, who kept office here, And afterwards a Judge austere Of the Queen's Bench or Common Pleas, Sat with much dignity and ease. 'Tis past, I shall not here relate Young Robert Lyon's luckless fate, Nor shall I stir the tomb and tell Why he an early victim fell At folly's shrine, as he who bends A martyr to ill-judging friends, Will always fall; but end I here This record of his short career. Honor, indeed! thy shrine appears, Surrounded by a sea of tears. George Shouldice is a man of old, Henry was too, who 'neath the mould Lies slumbering in solemn rest-- He many a pompous body drest With garments fine and quite exotic, When fashion was not so despotic. And Charles Friel, an early man With Bytown's history began, A man of ready tongue and wit, A politician who could hit And sway with eloquence the throng, Which shouts alike for right or wrong. Father of Henry James, who died. Just as his eye of hope descried The goal he labored to attain-- The honors he had fought to gain. Tis no uncommon thing to find A little man with full grown mind: And 'mongst those who have gone to rest-- Who of their chances made the best In life's o'er turning changing reel, I freely rank Henry J. Friel. And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone, Of Scotia's children he was one Who clothed the naked in his day-- That is, the naked who could pay. I have a friendly feeling yet For him, for I can ne'er forget The jacket blue which first I wore In the old cherished days of yore, That jacket which I don'd with pride.