It was in this year of changes, Eighteen hundred sixty-seven, That a fearful conflagration, Tore away a block of buildings, At the city's southeast corner; Razed an ancient block to ashes, On a wintry Saturday evening, On a night of snow and tempest, In the month of February. Soon a handsome row replaced it, Soon the enterprising people Cleared the debris and the rubbish, Cleared away the silent ruins, And rebuilt the last possessions. Silent? Aye, but speaking ever Of events and actors vanished, In the history of Lancaster. Of the offices and store-rooms, Of the dwellings and the households, Of affairs of public moment, Of the hidden and domestic, Of the groups of Mystic Brothers, Of the Masons and Odd-Fellows, Of ye ancient Sons of Temperance, All the secrets of the bygone, Speaking from the smoking ruins. So there rose another structure, Phoenix-like, upon the ashes. Where the merchants and the tradesmen, Can pursue their avocations. And the store-rooms are surmounted, By a Hall of spacious model, Where the city's merry-makers, Find an evening's recreation, Where the weary men of business, Often seek an hour's diversion; Where the order of Good Templars, Held their rites and ceremonies, Where the skating-rink and concert, Where the festival and supper, Where the theatre and lecture, And the dancing-school and tableau, --All the public entertainments, Have beguiled the times of leisure.