have gone to rest--
Who of their chances made the best
In life's o'er turning changing reel,
I freely rank Henry J. Friel.
And Daniel Fisher, too, is gone,
Of Scotia's children he was one
Who clothed the naked in his day--
That is, the naked who could pay.
I have a friendly feeling yet
For him, for I can ne'er forget
The jacket blue which first I wore
In the old cherished days of yore,
That jacket which I don'd with pride.
Caused me to feel a man beside
The urchin in the pinafore
Which I had just arisen o'er;
In Daniel Fisher's shop 'twas made--
Headquarters of the fig-leaf trade.--
In that most ancient grand device
Which had its rise in Paradise.
I see as on I hurry past,
Pat Duggan, who blew vulcan's blast,
And friend Kehoe, who with hand neat
Fitted the shoes to horse's feet;
And John McGivern, the baker,
And Robert Wanless, harness-maker;
And William Atkins, who is still
Holding his own upon the hill
Of life, though slowly wending
Towards the goal that has no ending;
And Silas Burpee, pious man,
Who in the early ages ran
With drums and belts and wheels complete
A turning mill on old York Street--
Upon the very spot, now thought of
Where gander's head George Shouldice shot off,
With an old smooth-bore, but would not
That day attempt a second shot;
'Twas wise of George, a second shot
Might have consigned to luckless pot,
His marksman's name, and half a shilling,
His renown in the art of killing.
It was a stirring place of trade
Where famous spinning tops were made.
And splendid water power was found
Where now there's nought but solid ground,
Covered with numerous loads of wood,
A costly item bad or good.
In modern times--of old it stood,
Maple at ninety cents a cord,
Just four and six-pence, by my word!
And Julius Burpee, gone! well, well!
He kept the old Rideau Hotel,
Where man and beast could get the best
And truly find the traveller's rest.
Julius still might living be
Were it not for the "barley bree."
And Edward Darcey too, appears.
And Jeffry Nolan, who in years
Gone by, was stout and strong in fight.
And in the conflict always right,
Before the days when frolic's King
McDougall "made Dungarven ring!"
Frank's arm then, as mine, was strong,
None but himself in all the throng
So far the ponderous sledge could hurl,
Until at last with dexterous whirl,
"The school master" defiant came
And walked off champion of the game.
From first to last I've found him true,
McDougal _ciamar tha s