I cross the Ottawa once more. From Hull again to Bytown's shore. And for a moment I behold The river as it was of old, Swelling, majestic in its pride, A glorious stream from side to side! A "Grand River" was Ottawa then, The pride of ancient lumbermen, By slabs and sawdust undefiled. The joy of nature's dusky child, Who's matchless, perfect bark canoe Oft o'er its crystal bosom flew-- Not bridged all o'er like shaking bogs By endless booms of dirty logs, Which to the thrifty and the wise Are doubtless marks of enterprise, And evidences too of health, Of pocket and commercial wealth, Yet sadly, sometimes out of place, And serious blots on Nature's face. What would big Indian "Clouthier" say-- The red-skinn'd Samson could he stray From the happy hunting ground away-- Could he behold the stream to-day-- The great Kah-nah-jo, where the God Of the Algonquins used to nod In dreamy slumber 'mid the smoke Which from the mighty cataract broke, Hemm'd in by sawmills, booms and piers-- The features of a thousand years Of beauty ruthlessly defaced-- The landmarks of the past displaced, And little left to tell the story Of Ottawa's departed glory; But water running where it ran When the red deer chase began. 'Twould startle even Philemon Wright With all his wisdom and foresight. Could he arise, good man of old, And modern Ottawa behold, He'd feel himself a stranger too-- 'Mid scenes of wonder strange and new-- In Hull, of little worth for tillage, The spot on which he built his village. Return I now, this slight digression Was worth the time, I've an impression; Clouthier, the Indian, was a giant, And "Squire Wright," strong, self-reliant, Was he who o'er the border came And gave to Hull its ancient fame; A man of enterprise and spirit Who in this history well doth merit, Such place of prominence as can Be given to such a stirring man. On the way back I see the ground Where ferrying Odium was found, And afterwards, next in progression, Friend John Bedard came in possession, And certainly much money made By a successful carrying trade. The place seems alter'd, art and skill Have built up Wright and Batson's mill At the old wharf, or near at hand, Where the first steamer used to land, Before even that small craft could ride At any wharf on Bytown's side. And not far off, in days of yore A cottage stood--'tis there no more, And if there ever was a spot Where friend and foe a welcome got-- Where generous hospitality Presided o'er the banquet free, And friendship's hand for rich and poor Was ever opening the door-- That spot was where that cottage stood, Embowered in the cedar wood, And he who there resided with An open heart, was old Ralph Smith! In memory I behold him now, With sparkling eye and lofty brow, And round the table amply spread, Are Patton, Henry, Ralph and Ned, And Dolly--blessed be her shade! Who, such nice things for schoolboys made, And made them feel just as no other On earth could do except their mother. But I must hurry, or I own,