Can I, an ancient friend, pass by,
Who even to-day still greets my eye,
And brings up among modern men
The dearly cherish'd past again?
'Tis far, far back, I scarce can fix
The date, perhaps, 'twas '26,
When he, in Huntly, on a farm,
Once tried his unaccustomed arm
At work for which 'twas never made,
In that most independent trade.
He left Bucolics, trees, and all,
And moved away to Montreal,
To teach, as better him did suit,
"The young idea how to shoot."
And many a youth has blest the day
Of Alexander Workman's sway.
I'll say no more, lest I should be
Accused, perhaps, of flattery.
'Twould scarcely here be out of place
If Edward Griffin's smiling face
I should present in colors true--
In good Samaritanic view;
The patron of Joe Lee, whose name
Is known to histrionic fame;
Who play'd at Shylock on the stage,
When tragedy was more the rage
Than in this sad degenerate age.
And where art thou, my friend, George Story,
A man of yore, though not yet hoary?