Caused me to feel a man beside The urchin in the pinafore Which I had just arisen o'er; In Daniel Fisher's shop 'twas made-- Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.-- In that most ancient grand device Which had its rise in Paradise. I see as on I hurry past, Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan's blast, And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat Fitted the shoes to horse's feet; And John McGivern, the baker, And Robert Wanless, harness-maker; And William Atkins, who is still Holding his own upon the hill Of life, though slowly wending Towards the goal that has no ending; And Silas Burpee, pious man, Who in the early ages ran With drums and belts and wheels complete A turning mill on old York Street-- Upon the very spot, now thought of Where gander's head George Shouldice shot off, With an old smooth-bore, but would not That day attempt a second shot; 'Twas wise of George, a second shot Might have consigned to luckless pot, His marksman's name, and half a shilling, His renown in the art of killing. It was a stirring place of trade Where famous spinning tops were made. And splendid water power was found Where now there's nought but solid ground, Covered with numerous loads of wood, A costly item bad or good. In modern times--of old it stood, Maple at ninety cents a cord, Just four and six-pence, by my word! And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well! He kept the old Rideau Hotel, Where man and beast could get the best And truly find the traveller's rest. Julius still might living be Were it not for the "barley bree." And Edward Darcey too, appears. And Jeffry Nolan, who in years Gone by, was stout and strong in fight. And in the conflict always right, Before the days when frolic's King McDougall "made Dungarven ring!" Frank's arm then, as mine, was strong, None but himself in all the throng So far the ponderous sledge could hurl, Until at last with dexterous whirl, "The school master" defiant came And walked off champion of the game. From first to last I've found him true, McDougal _ciamar tha sibhn dieugh_? And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where Is he who once was Bytown's Mayor, Ere, J.B. Turgeon took the chair? Lost 'mid the overwhelming blaze Of changes new; gone from the gaze Of public life, like many a man Who, once for public honors ran. And George and Robert Lang are gone, Men of intelligence and tone, Who held positions marked and high In Bytown's old society. Nor has amongst the ancient few Captain McKinnon from my view-- Though long a tenant of the tomb-- Faded into oblivion's gloom. If Roderick Stewart now was near, He'd pour into my listening ear A tale I would delight to hear, Of other men of other times, Who's names may have escaped my rhymes. The Captain lived, a man discreet, Near where the ancient arch did meet O'er famous little Sussex Street, For there a tragedy took place Which here the muse with truth shall trace. A boy stood near that arch of old Upon a wintry day--'twas cold, Tired of sleighing down the hill, He for a moment there stood still,