ibhn dieugh_?
And Charles Sparrow, where, oh, where
Is he who once was Bytown's Mayor,
Ere, J.B. Turgeon took the chair?
Lost 'mid the overwhelming blaze
Of changes new; gone from the gaze
Of public life, like many a man
Who, once for public honors ran.
And George and Robert Lang are gone,
Men of intelligence and tone,
Who held positions marked and high
In Bytown's old society.
Nor has amongst the ancient few
Captain McKinnon from my view--
Though long a tenant of the tomb--
Faded into oblivion's gloom.
If Roderick Stewart now was near,
He'd pour into my listening ear
A tale I would delight to hear,
Of other men of other times,
Who's names may have escaped my rhymes.
The Captain lived, a man discreet,
Near where the ancient arch did meet
O'er famous little Sussex Street,
For there a tragedy took place
Which here the muse with truth shall trace.
A boy stood near that arch of old
Upon a wintry day--'twas cold,
Tired of sleighing down the hill,
He for a moment there stood still,
That boy sits now with pen in hand,
From memory's photographic land
Painting in colors fair and true
The vanished scenes which once he knew.
As thus he rested taking breath,
He little dreamed of blood or death.
Up Rideau Street a man there came,
Charles McStravick was his name.
A tall, lithe, active fellow, he,
As in a thousand you could see;
A white blanket _capote_ he wore,
And jauntily himself he bore,
He stepped beneath the arch, and then
Rushed at him fiercely two strong men.
Both with surprise and dread were scan'd.
One had a loaded whip in hand,
The other a short bludgeon bore,
And in a moment, all was o'er!
Three blows, a crash, a stream of blood.
All of the victim bad or good
In life, was in an instant crushed
To dust--off the assailants rushed,
And none can tell from then 'till now
The hands that laid McStravick low,
Nor does he who relates the story
Know more of that occurrence gory
My history would be faithless here
Did "Happy Jimmy" not appear,
An innocent good natured soul
As ever loved the flowing bowl--
An institution of the day
That like himself hath passed away,
Was "Happy Jimmy," he who made
A vagrant's life a merry trade.

CHAPTER VI.

And now, kind reader, I behold
Before me, as in days of old,
Bold Paddy Whelan, Wexford Paddy
Surely of noisy men the daddy;
A man of most Herculean form,
Who roamed through sunshine and through storm,
And sounded loud in other days
His notes in Hamnett P