And down below near Nicholas Street,
A quiet man each morn you'd meet
At ten a.m., his pathway wending,
With steps to Ordnance office bending,
A mild man and an unassuming,
Health and good nature ever blooming
Seem'd stamped upon his smiling face,
Where time had scarcely left its trace;
_Semper idem_ let me beg
Thy pardon, honest William Clegg!
Nor must, although his bones are rotten,
The ancient Mosgrove be forgotten,
A man of kindly nature, he
Has left a spot in memory
While gazing on each vanish'd scene
That still remains both fresh and green
For when in heat of hurling bent
The ball oft through his window went,
He pitch'd it to us out again,
And ask'd no payment for the pane.
On Sussex Street, James Inglis flourish'd,
A cannie Scot, and well he nourish'd
A very thriving dry goods trade,
And "piles" of good hard silver made,
Almost amongst the forest trees,
By furs from Aborigines.
No "Hotel" then was in the town,
"The British" in its old renown,
Of our Hotels the ancient mother
Had not one stone laid on another;