Its banks filled in, more space to gain.
Its stream, by many a filthy drain,
Which once was rapid, always clear,
Changed into color worse than beer,
To cool and icy scowling scan,
Of rigid, total abstinence man.
Gone is its fair renown of yore,
It's schoolboy battles all are o'er,
Which made it then a "Campo Bello"
For many an embryo daring fellow--
Too young to know what men of sense
Have called the art of self-defence;
There buttons flew, from stitching riven,
Black eyes and bloody noses given--
Even conflicts national took place,
Among old Bytown's youthful race.
Why not? for children bigger grown
I rave sometimes down the gauntlet thrown
For cause as small, and launch'd afar
The fierce and fiery bolts of war,
Simply to find out which was best.
Cæsar or Pompey by the test.
In those past combats "rich and rare"
Luke Cuzner always had his share.
For Luke in days of _auld lang syne_
Did most pugnaciously incline,
Never to challenge slack or slow,
And never stain'd by "coward's blow."
The Joyces too, Mick, John and Walter,
In battle's path did seldom falter,