And then his powers of selection
In liquor almost touch perfection.
Next comes James Whitty, man of old,
Who once was a young sailor bold,
A quiet, little Wexford man,
Who warmed his jacket at Japan,
And "dashed his buttons" gaily, too,
In China with the pig-tailed crew;
Ere he in times that are no more
On Ottawa's bosom tugged an oar.
John Ashfield now in sight appears,
A gunsmith of the faded years;
Just as flint locks began to lapse,
He came in with percussion caps.
Here, too, is William Graham, the same,
Who from Fermanagh County came,
And many a hard earned shilling made
By groceries and general trade;
Father of him once called "Black Bill,"
That we might designate him still,
From him of Madawaska note,
Who oft on timber was afloat,
And who has claim in song of mine
To something o'er a passing line.
Companion of my early youth,
When time with us was young; and truth
Was all we knew in life's fair spring,
Thy name doth recollections bring
Long slumbering in "oblivions vale,"
'Till waked by memory's passing gale;