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 From where his school James Elder kept, In that old house remembered well, After, as Joseph Kirk's Hotel, Ere it was haunted by a sound Which shed such melody around, Sweet almost as the songs of Zion, From violin of Robinson Lyon, Who drew such music from its strings, Scotch reels, strathspeys and highland flings, And Irish jigs in variation, As made one feel that "all creation" Could scarcely match his wizard spell, 'Twas he that played the fiddle well! And Edward Malloch, gone to rest, Was not the worst, nor yet the best, Perhaps, 'mongst those of other days To whom I dedicate these lays. I knew him well in '25, When Richmond Village was alive, While Bytown's head was scarcely seen, Emerging from the forest green. A captain of Artillery In '37's hot time was he, When Louis Joseph Papineau Sought British power to overthrow; And William L. McKenzie tried O'er loyalty and truth to ride; Each found the path, for what he wanted,