The Indian, with its withering skill,
It has done for the "Colonel's Hill."
Who comes, so centaur like in grace,
Good spirits pictured in his face?
'Tis Isaac Smith, let truth not vary,
A gentleman from Tipperary,
Beloved by all, 'twere hard to mate him,
He had no enemies to hate him,
His friends were neither scarce nor few
They numbered every soul he knew.
Who e'er remembers Isaac Smith,
Mounted top boots and breeches with,
Upon his stately old black mare
Will recollect a horseman rare.
Christopher Carlton, where art thou?
Come here, old friend, I want thee now
To ramble back with me again
To where of old McPherson and Crane,
And Francis Clemow, too, I think,
Did business at the Basin's brink.
And Bindon Burton Alton, who
Has vanished from terrestial view;
The poet with the flashing eye--
The true born son of minstrelsy!
Who sang so sweetly, memory still
Trembles with the undying thrill.
Which throbbed in melting tones of fire
From Bindon Burton Alton's lyre,
Alas! alas! that such a soul
Should sink a victim to the bowl.