l sink beneath a crimson flood,
While o'er it from the highest crag,
Will wave the glorious meteor flag!
I've wandered somewhat from my track,
But quietly I now come back;
Into my train of thought there blew
A passing spark, away it flew,
And I was gone before I knew--
Like nitro-glycerine it sprung,
And from the pathway I was flung.
Yet no uncertain sound give I,
I risk it as a prophecy.
By George Street north, I pass and see
There Pierre Desloges, a man was he,
But little known beyond the spot
Where first he built his little cot.
And Alexander Ethier too,
A carpenter, both good and true
Beside him dwelt, where busy feet,
Pass onward to Dalhousie Street.
And now I think it passing strange
That in wild fancy's flitting range
I have not seen and mark'd before
John Litle standing at his door--
In Sussex Street where erst, kept he
An Inn of quite a good degree
Of excellence in the old time
Which has evoked this lengthy rhyme,
John was a man of sturdy frame
As any that hath borne his name.
Even Brave Bob Elliot would delight
His prowess to behold in fight;
And Robert Elliott was not slow
To give or to resent a blow
In other days, when not as now.
The olive branch of peace is seen
Between the orange and the green.
And Richard Stethem in the haze
Of Bytown's distant early days
Before my vision doth appear,
To claim his right of entry here.
And Robert Stethem, too, his brother,
Of village denizens another;
John Miller too, of leather fame,
Who from the County Wexford came,
And first made here such boots and shoes
As fashion could not now refuse
In this fastidious age to take
And wear them for their matchless make.
And how have I not had before
James Anderson, a man of yore,
Who pitched his tent in days gone by
'Mong Bytown's ancient company,
An honest hearted jovial Scot
As e'er in exile cast his lot
'Mongst those who pioneered the track
Down which my memory's muse looks back.
And now as I stretch forth my hand
In search of one from Paddy's land,
A man of wit and humour rare,
I touch him still and find him there.
From Erin, scarcely from Armagh,
To Carleton came Denis McGrath,
Loud has his North Hibernian tongue
Upon the Byward market rung
For six and thirty years; in truth,
I've known him since the days of youth,
John Litle can my tale review
Of Denis, he will find it true.
And John Macdonald, of the Isles,
With face clad in perennial smiles,
Knight of the knock-down hammer, he
Claims passin