Oft chased the anther'd buck before Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore. He was a sportsman keen and true, Who dearly loved the "view halloo!" And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;" And Isaac Cluff appears in view, A loyalist, both staunch and true; James "Kennedy, the carter," too, Who the first truck through Bytown drew With the assistance of a horse, I mean, to be exact, of course. And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on, A true and honest hearted Briton, As ever crossed Atlantic's wave To found a home and find a grave. And William Colter now doth rise Before my retrospective eyes, A saddler far from democratic-- Professor most aristocratic, In art which claims the highest feather Among the fashioners of leather; An active springing step had he As now his form appears to me; Early he went to that far bourne "From whence no travellers return." Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way, And tell me how you feel to-day? You thought I'd pass and let you go, Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so, Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre. I'll touch you off now in short metre. 'Tis long since first your eye, my man, Along the rifle barrel ran; The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same, If you could only see the game. Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew Into its centre straight and true, In the old days when practiced eye Was light, shade and trajectory. Does your keen eye obey your will, Is your hand quite as steady still As when you knocked the turkey's o'er, At twenty rods in days of yore? My blessing day and night upon The memory of the time that's gone. And Sergeant Major Ritchie, there He stands before my vision, where In youth I used to see him stand On Barrack Hill with cane in hand. For many a year ere death's disaster He held the post of Barrack Master, And amongst people who reflected Most highly always was respected. I had almost forgotten one Who's name should not be left alone In dark oblivion's envious shade While I the silent past invade-- To light up the forgotten gloom; To rescue from time's early tomb And touch with friendly hand, and give To fading memories power to live. 'Mongst men of enterprising fame, I can't pass George Buchanan's name; He built our first old timber slide, Down which the red pine cribs did glide; And afterwards with strength and skill, And an indomitable will, At the great Rapids of the _Chats_, Suspended nature's changeless laws, And by an artificial path Triumphed o'er the cataract's wrath! While standing quietly on shore, Watching the freight the current bore, A sudden crash from careless oar Ended his enterprising life, And made a widow of his wife. The public mourned, its great heart bled, With genuine sorrow for the dead. 'Tis but as yesterday to me, The history of that tragedy. Ere to the fair green now I go, I'll stir up the old "Buffalo." John Heney, who his mark has made In speculation's shifting trade, And built up with both brick and stone,