Captain Letreton, too, I see,
An officer of high degree.
The owner, ere the days of rats,
Of that wide district called "the Flats"
In modern times, where I behold,
A pinery as in days of old.
And Isaac Firth, an old John Bull,
Of milk of human kindness full,
Of rotund form and smiling face,
Who kept an entertaining place
For travel-worn and weary fellows
Who landed where Caleb S. Bellows,
Out on "the Point" his habitation
Built in a pleasant situation,
Before the days when piles of lumber
Did first fair nature's face encumber;
Quite near the spot where first with skill
John Perkins built his little mill,
Where Philip Thompson many a year
Ago, commenced his bright career,
And took the ebbing of the tide,
Which into golden waves did glide;
He man'd his craft and steered her well
O'er placid calm and tossing swell,
And independent of the gale
Hath snap'd his oar and furled his sail.
'Twas just above "the whitefish hole,"
How dear that spot is to my soul!
There Allan Cameron and I
Together many a day did hie,