James Finch, too, who died here of late,
Was one of those of '28,
Or '27 it may be,
Comes nearer to the certainty;
James Finch sledged stoutly with a will,
In the old forge on "Major's Hill,"
In '29, he once lay still
For fifteen minutes on the ground
Insensible to sight or sound,
'Twas a stone that almost killed him quite,
In a most lively faction fight
In Bytown's celebrated fair,
When stones flew thickly through the air,
I can't forget it, I was there;
Its history I'll not jot down
Until I get to Upper Town.
And Charles Rowan, well I know,
The reader sought for him ere now,
What shall I of friend Charlie say,
Who came from Connaught all the way?
Who well can speak the celtic tongue
In which the Irish mintrels sung.
When famous Malachi of old
The collar wore of beaten gold,
Torn fiercely from the haughty Dane
By his right arm in battle slain!
Charlie is mild and full of meekness,
Horses with him have been a weakness:
A clipper spanking between traces
He used to drive at trotting races,