at was eighteen inches high
Come next to view, Denis O'Neill,
A ship carpenter, who laid the keel
Of many a vessel in his day,
And still he clinks and caulks away.
James Finch, too, who died here of late,
Was one of those of '28,
Or '27 it may be,
Comes nearer to the certainty;
James Finch sledged stoutly with a will,
In the old forge on "Major's Hill,"
In '29, he once lay still
For fifteen minutes on the ground
Insensible to sight or sound,
'Twas a stone that almost killed him quite,
In a most lively faction fight
In Bytown's celebrated fair,
When stones flew thickly through the air,
I can't forget it, I was there;
Its history I'll not jot down
Until I get to Upper Town.
And Charles Rowan, well I know,
The reader sought for him ere now,
What shall I of friend Charlie say,
Who came from Connaught all the way?
Who well can speak the celtic tongue
In which the Irish mintrels sung.
When famous Malachi of old
The collar wore of beaten gold,
Torn fiercely from the haughty Dane
By his right arm in battle slain!
Charlie is mild and full of meekness,
Horses with him have been a weakness:
A clipper spanking between traces
He used to drive at trotting races,
And then his powers of selection
In liquor almost touch perfection.
Next comes James Whitty, man of old,
Who once was a young sailor bold,
A quiet, little Wexford man,
Who warmed his jacket at Japan,
And "dashed his buttons" gaily, too,
In China with the pig-tailed crew;
Ere he in times that are no more
On Ottawa's bosom tugged an oar.
John Ashfield now in sight appears,
A gunsmith of the faded years;
Just as flint locks began to lapse,
He came in with percussion caps.
Here, too, is William Graham, the same,
Who from Fermanagh County came,
And many a hard earned shilling made
By groceries and general trade;
Father of him once called "Black Bill,"
That we might designate him still,
From him of Madawaska note,
Who oft on timber was afloat,
And who has claim in song of mine
To something o'er a passing line.
Companion of my early youth,
When time with us was young; and truth
Was all we knew in life's fair spring,
Thy name doth recollections bring
Long slumbering in "oblivions vale,"
'Till waked by memory's passing gale;
With thee I strayed in days of yore
Beside old "Goodwood's" pleasant shore;
Each unforgotten scene by thee
Is brought to life again for me;
A child again with thee I stand,
Among that childish happy band,
Who thought not, dreamt n