The even tenor of thy way
Hast thou maintain'd for many a day;
They tell us within human range
That mortal things are given to change,
It may be so, yet thou art still
But little changed, though down the hill
Quietly gliding, still thou hast
An air about thee of the past;
Who knew thee thirty years ago
At the first glance would know thee now.
And Thomas Story--modest man--
As well as any other can,
Or, he may think, much better too,
Suit habit's taste in me or you,
In coat artistically made
According to that ancient trade,
Which had its rise in solitude,
Where Adam lived before the flood--
Is still Tom Story of the past,
Long may his life's fair measure last
And Sandy Mowat, here's a line
To thee, in memory of lang syne;
Fond wert thou of the target ground--
Fond of a rifle and a hound;
Dost thou remember Bearbrook's brink
And the old shanty without "chink,"
Or door to stop the piercing gale
That whirled along the snow-clad vale,
Where Peter McArthur, you and I,
Once slept beneath a wintry sky;