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 not, that the day
Of early bliss would pass away;
No retrospect can be more fair
That that I see behind me there,
Friend William Graham, I wish thee well,
But this to thee I need not tell. 
Who is he with the cassock on,
Who bursts my second sight upon,
A merry twinkle in his eye,
Not sanctimonious, nor yet sly,
His country, one can scarcely miss
Such pure Hibernian brogue is his? 
Tis surely Father Heron’s gait,
Bytown’s first priest in ’28. 
Close in canonical degree,
John Cannon’s stately form I see,
In bigotry no stern red-tapist,
Favorite of Protestant and Papist;
A jovial blade with soul elastic,
No gloomy-faced ecclesiastic,
He ruled his congregation well,
Nor taught them that the path to hell
Was thronged by those who made digression
From penance, fasting and confession. 
And there with academic birch,
Stands Anslie of the English Church,
Who preached in Hull and Bytown too,
Of old, to many a godless crew,
Assembled on each Sabbath day
To pass an idle hour away,
Though doubtless some went there to pray,
While here I pass in swift review
The reverend and pious few,
Who stood as finger posts of yore,
Pointing the way to Canaan’s shore,
John Carroll surely should appear,
And take his proper station here,
An honest Wesleyan was he,
Who never knew hypocrisy. 
George Poole in days more distant still,
In the little church on “Sandy Hill,”
Which gave its name to “Chapel Street,”
His congregation oft did meet. 
And John C. Davidson, also,
Was one of those who long ago
’Mid primal darkness, thick and gross,
Unfurled the banner of the cross;
A Methodist both sound and prime
He was esteemed in the old time,
’Till something gave his faith a lurch,
And he bolted to the English Church,
In which ’tis said that he is quite
“A burning and a shining light.”

CHAPTER X.