l recollect the story.
Edward Barry, grave J.P.,
Sometimes was given to a spree,
Which interfered with the precision
Of magisterial decision.
So Edward Barry jumped the hedge
And took the frigid temperance pledge;
But soon the Justice of the Peace
Found himself often ill at ease;
Pains through his gastric regions ran,
Too hard even for a temperance man.
Then Barry M.D., in a trice,
Gave Barry J.P. an advice,
After a careful diagnosis,
Which placed him on a bed of roses,
And eased his pains beyond description--
A dose of brandy the prescription--
Oft as required to be repeated--
With which the learned J.P. was treated;
And history affirms that he
Oft took the prescribed remedy.
John Cameron, oft called "Black John,"
Comes o'er my dream of old, as one
Who should not now forgotten be
In this memorial strain by me,
In days of yore, his true-nosed hounds
To the Chaudiere with certain bounds,
Oft chased the anther'd buck before
Their deep-mouthed yells to Ottawa's shore.
He was a sportsman keen and true,
Who dearly loved the "view halloo!"
And Graves, who near the old Scotch Kirk
Dwelt 'neath the shadow of the "birk;"
And Isaac Cluff appears in view,
A loyalist, both staunch and true;
James "Kennedy, the carter," too,
Who the first truck through Bytown drew
With the assistance of a horse,
I mean, to be exact, of course.
And "old Ben. Rathwell," now I've hit on,
A true and honest hearted Briton,
As ever crossed Atlantic's wave
To found a home and find a grave.
And William Colter now doth rise
Before my retrospective eyes,
A saddler far from democratic--
Professor most aristocratic,
In art which claims the highest feather
Among the fashioners of leather;
An active springing step had he
As now his form appears to me;
Early he went to that far bourne
"From whence no travellers return."
Thomas M. Blasdell, step this way,
And tell me how you feel to-day?
You thought I'd pass and let you go,
Old twisted groove! but 'tis not so,
Like charcoal, brimstone and salpetre.
I'll touch you off now in short metre.
'Tis long since first your eye, my man,
Along the rifle barrel ran;
The "crotch" or "globe" was all the same,
If you could only see the game.
Or the "bulls-eye," the missile flew
Into its centre straight and true,
In the old days when practiced eye
Was light, shade and trajectory.
Does your keen eye obey your will,
Is your hand quite as steady still
As when you knocked the turkey's o'er,
At twenty ro