still greets my eye,
And brings up among modern men
The dearly cherish'd past again?
'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix
The date, perhaps, 'twas '26,
When he, in Huntly, on a farm,
Once tried his unaccustomed arm
At work for which 'twas never made,
In that most independent trade.
He left Bucolics, trees, and all,
And moved away to Montreal,
To teach, as better him did suit,
"The young idea how to shoot."
And many a youth has blest the day
Of Alexander Workman's sway.
I'll say no more, lest I should be
Accused, perhaps, of flattery.
'Twould scarcely here be out of place
If Edward Griffin's smiling face
I should present in colors true--
In good Samaritanic view;
The patron of Joe Lee, whose name
Is known to histrionic fame;
Who play'd at Shylock on the stage,
When tragedy was more the rage
Than in this sad degenerate age.
And where art thou, my friend, George Story,
A man of yore, though not yet hoary?
The even tenor of thy way
Hast thou maintain'd for many a day;
They tell us within human range
That mortal things are given to change,
It may be so, yet thou art still
But little changed, though down the hill
Quietly gliding, still thou hast
An air about thee of the past;
Who knew thee thirty years ago
At the first glance would know thee now.
And Thomas Story--modest man--
As well as any other can,
Or, he may think, much better too,
Suit habit's taste in me or you,
In coat artistically made
According to that ancient trade,
Which had its rise in solitude,
Where Adam lived before the flood--
Is still Tom Story of the past,
Long may his life's fair measure last
And Sandy Mowat, here's a line
To thee, in memory of lang syne;
Fond wert thou of the target ground--
Fond of a rifle and a hound;
Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink
And the old shanty without "chink,"
Or door to stop the piercing gale
That whirled along the snow-clad vale,
Where Peter McArthur, you and I,
Once slept beneath a wintry sky;
While through the roof in splendor bright
We saw the guardians of the night--
The snow-storm of the coming day--
The savage wounded buck at bay--
And how we lost and found our way?
Dost thou forget the strain of glee
That from deep slumber's arms roused thee?
Dost thou remember who did ride
The bounding wounded buck astride,
And whose the crimsoned hunting knife
That ended there the quarry's life.
Then "Eastman's Springs" were little known
To few beyond we three alone.
And Malcolm Ferguson, oh why