I ne'er shall reach the Upper Town, For there I'll find an ancient throng To link together in my song, And I shall wake them up ere long. 'Mongst those of olden time who came Was one whose engineering fame Was brilliant--let none call be braggart While speaking thus of John MacTaggart, A genius of the highest grade In that most scientific trade, Who plann'd with wise, consummate skill, Even from the lock-gates lowest sill To Kingston Mills, the undertaking Which cost such time and cash in making, Rideau Canal, the work of years, And England's Royal Engineers. Brother of Isaac, once known hero As Corporation Engineer, Or Street Surveyor in that time When Ottawa's fur was not so prime, Whom well of old the writer knew, And as he comes up for review-- Like volume taken from the shelf-- He harm'd no one but himself, Is all his bitterest foe can say Of Isaac who has passed away. And James Fitzgibbon, where is he? Beneath the weeping willow tree, Retired, quiet-going man Who ne'er his head 'gainst faction ran. And close upon his fading track I see the shadow of James Black, Who once on Rideau Street kept store In the remember'd days of yore, A stirring, active man was he, Genteel, polite to a degree, That customers were always fain Who saw him once to call again; His wife in the old churchyard lay-- Her epitaph I know to-day. And there stands Thomas Burrows, too, As he appeared before my view, Leaning upon his garden gate Beside the Creek in '28; He held of trust, an office high Under the reign of Colonel By. And Tom McDonald, as we then Were wont to call the best of men; A man of spirit rare was he Who never had an enemy. And there, too, Captain Victor goes With most aristocratic nose, And manners haughty with the ring Of _ton_ when George the Fourth was king. And Lieut. Pooley, for whose skill The "Gully" bridge is named so still, Ask Lyman Perkins, if you doubt it, And he will tell you all about it. And Dr. Tuthill, who with skill Could cure more readily than kill, Physic'd, emetic'd, too, and clyster'd, And _con amore_, bled and blister'd, In the old Hospital, which stood Unscathed by tempest, fire, or flood, For fifty years, to be down cast, By chance, or carelessness, at last, Theme for conjecture, most prolific, Another phase of the Pacific Railway which will cause a broil, Unless 'tis built on British soil! And there, too, Joseph Coombs was found, With solemn step his march around Among the patients, pacing slowly-- Disciple of the meek and lowly, Who afterwards oft turned the key On many a goodly company. In that strong work of mason's trowel, Ruled now by Alexander Powell. And William Addison, no more-- As trim a soldier as e'er wore The uniform, or bravely bore His head erect, with step as light As wings that touch the air in flight. Well had he won and kept from harm The honor'd stripes upon his arm. Such men as he have been the stay Of Britain in her darkest day! And Sergeant Johnston who, with skill,