The names of yore in song of mine, Can I forget a name like thine? Ah, no! although thine ashes rest Beneath our common mother's breast, No name more spotless doth engage My muse, or grace my tuneful page. Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt, Below the present Bywash dwelt, Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave The grass of '32 did wave. No man got in a passion faster Than did old Bytown's first postmaster; Yet was he a most upright man, And well the old machinery "ran" When mail bags came on horse's back Before we had a railway track, And their arrival on each morn Was signall'd by an old tin horn. Peace to his shade! in '32 The cholera Matthew Connell slew. Kind reader, let me pass awhile, Beside the "Bywash," deem'd so vile, Then called "the Creek"--though now the pest-- The festering miasmatic nest Of Boards of Health, who dread infection-- My very heart's sincere affection Clings fondly to that old creek still; For oft in boyhood's joyous thrill, O'er its ice-bosom in wild play I chased the ball in youth's bright day. With young companions loved and dear! How few of such, alas! are here To listen to the bye-gone story Of the old Creek's vanish'd glory! 'Twixt "wooden lock" and Rideau Street, Young Bytown oft was wont to meet-- To struggle in the "shinny game;" Ah! then it was a place of fame, Full sixty feet from shore to shore, While now it measures scarce a score; Modern improvement has prevail'd-- Its fair proportions are curtail'd; Its banks filled in, more space to gain. Its stream, by many a filthy drain, Which once was rapid, always clear, Changed into color worse than beer, To cool and icy scowling scan, Of rigid, total abstinence man. Gone is its fair renown of yore, It's schoolboy battles all are o'er, Which made it then a "Campo Bello" For many an embryo daring fellow-- Too young to know what men of sense Have called the art of self-defence; There buttons flew, from stitching riven, Black eyes and bloody noses given-- Even conflicts national took place, Among old Bytown's youthful race. Why not? for children bigger grown I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown For cause as small, and launch'd afar The fierce and fiery bolts of war, Simply to find out which was best. Caesar or Pompey by the test. In those past combats "rich and rare" Luke Cuzner always had his share. For Luke in days of _auld lang syne_ Did most pugnaciously incline, Never to challenge slack or slow, And never stain'd by "coward's blow." The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter, In battle's path did seldom falter, But "Jimmy," in those days of grace Held a peacemaker's blessed place, Nor has he wander'd far astray From the same calm and tranquil way. The belt was worn by any one Who had the latest battle won, 'Till Simon Murphy's springing bound Lit on that ancient battle ground, And from that hour he was King Of our young pugilistic ring! But here I'd like to pause a minute And go to Hull--there's something in it That to the hour of life's December