Where ferrying Odium was found,
And afterwards, next in progression,
Friend John Bedard came in possession,
And certainly much money made
By a successful carrying trade. 
The place seems alter’d, art and skill
Have built up Wright and Batson’s mill
At the old wharf, or near at hand,
Where the first steamer used to land,
Before even that small craft could ride
At any wharf on Bytown’s side. 
And not far off, in days of yore
A cottage stood—­’tis there no more,
And if there ever was a spot
Where friend and foe a welcome got—­
Where generous hospitality
Presided o’er the banquet free,
And friendship’s hand for rich and poor
Was ever opening the door—­
That spot was where that cottage stood,
Embowered in the cedar wood,
And he who there resided with
An open heart, was old Ralph Smith! 
In memory I behold him now,
With sparkling eye and lofty brow,
And round the table amply spread,
Are Patton, Henry, Ralph and Ned,
And Dolly—­blessed be her shade! 
Who, such nice things for schoolboys made,
And made them feel just as no other
On earth could do except their mother. 
But I must hurry, or I own,
I ne’er shall reach the Upper Town,
For there I’ll find an ancient throng
To link together in my song,
And I shall wake them up ere long. 
’Mongst those of olden time who came
Was one whose engineering fame
Was brilliant—­let none call be braggart
While speaking thus of John MacTaggart,
A genius of the highest grade
In that most scientific trade,
Who plann’d with wise, consummate skill,
Even from the lock-gates lowest sill
To Kingston Mills, the undertaking
Which cost such time and cash in making,
Rideau Canal, the work of years,
And England’s Royal Engineers. 
Brother of Isaac, once known hero
As Corporation Engineer,
Or Street Surveyor in that time
When Ottawa’s fur was not so prime,
Whom well of old the writer knew,
And as he comes up for review—­
Like volume taken from the shelf—­
He harm’d no one but himself,
Is all his bitterest foe can say
Of Isaac who has passed away. 
And James Fitzgibbon, where is he? 
Beneath the weeping willow tree,
Retired, quiet-going man
Who ne’er his head ’gainst faction ran. 
And close upon his fading track
I see the shadow of James Black,
Who once on Rideau Street kept store
In the remember’d days of yore,
A stirring, active man was he,
Genteel, polite to a degree,
That customers were always fain
Who saw him once to call again;
His wife in the old churchyard lay—­
Her epitaph I know to-day. 
And there stands Thomas Burrows, too,
As he appeared before my view,
Leaning upon his garden gate
Beside the Creek in ’28;
He held of trust, an office high
Under the reign of Colonel By. 
And Tom McDonald, as we then
Were wont to call the best of men;