And hammer'd the strong bands of iron,
Which first securely bound together
The old lock gates through wind and weather,
The old Town Council minutes bear
The record that his name is there.
And Thomas Hanly, loud the praise
I gave him in my early days
For bread, that Eve might tempted be
To eat, had it grown on that tree,
On which hung the forbidden fruit
Whose seed gave earth's ills their sad root.
Friend Tom dealt in the rising leaven
In the old days of '27,
With "Jemmy Lang," an ancient Scot,
Who ne'er the barley bree forgot;
An honest, simple man was he
As ever loved good company;
And Tom McDermott, while I twine
The names of yore in song of mine,
Can I forget a name like thine?
Ah, no! although thine ashes rest
Beneath our common mother's breast,
No name more spotless doth engage
My muse, or grace my tuneful page.
Stern Matthew Connell, fiery Celt,
Below the present Bywash dwelt,
Beside John Cowan, o'er whose grave
The grass of '32 did wave.
No man got in a passion faster
Than did old Bytown's first postmaster;