Memorials, which, when he is gone, In Ottawa will securely stand, Proofs of his enterprising hand. Some years ago in learned debate, In Council Hall he sat in state. And in his record there you'll find, Nothing unfriendly or unkind. And while as gently I jog on, I cannot, pass by "honest John!" "Shaun Rhua," designating name, Who from the County Cavan came, And in the Upper Town first started. Young, enterprising, and light hearted. At Civic Board for many a year, For By Ward doth his name appear; And I can say, who ought to know, As far as my researches go, No public act has stain left on The well-earned name of "honest John!" Turk, Jew, and heathen all the same, Speak kindly of John Heney's name. Mark Bishoprick has gone at last, An aged pilgrim from the past, Burdened with many years he stood Almost alone in solitude, A record of an age that's gone, Who's lengthened shadow rested on The present, ere the distant light Sunk into everlasting night. CORKSTOWN. "Mother McGinty won't forget To keep the tally mark." (OLD SONG.) In days of yore, within a call Of where stands now the City Hall, A village built of mud and wood, In all its glory, Corkstown stood, Two rows of cabins in the swamp-- Begirt by ponds and vapors damp And aromatic cedar trees Who's branches caught the passing breeze-- Stretched upward on the western side Of the "Deep Cut," where then were plied The spade and pickaxe side by side; For, by the shade of Colonel By, Who shaped this city's destiny! There delved full many a hard case in, That channel to the Canal Basin. There, then dwelt many a sturdy blade, Adepts at handling the spade, And bruisers at the wheeling trade, As witness the vast mounds of clay Remaining on the banks to-day. Lovers of poteen strong and clear, In preference to rum or beer, Sons of the sod who'd knock you down For half a word 'gainst Cork's own town, And kick you then for falling too, To prove that the old mountain dew Had frolic in it raw and strong, As well as music, love and song. And there in whitewashed shanty grand, With kegs and bottles on each hand, Her face decked with a winning smile, Her head with cap of ancient style, Crowned arbiter of frolic's fate, Mother McGinty sat in state, And measured out the mountain dew To those whom strong attraction drew Within the circle of her power, To while away a leisure hour. She was the hostess and the host, She kept the reckoning, ruled the roast, And swung an arm of potent might That few would dare to brave in fight; Yet was she a good-natured soul, As ever filled the flowing bowl; In sooth she dealt in goodly cheer, Half-pints of whiskey, quarts of beer, Strong doses of sweet peppermint, Fine old Jamaica without stint, And shrub--a cordial then well known-- Her thirsty customers poured down, Nor dreamed of headaches, or of ills, For nought killed then, but doctors' pills! The song, the dance, and glass went round, The precincts of that classic ground;