With love alike to man and God!
James Joynt is 'mong the living yet
A printer of the old _Gazette_.
Who plied the typographic trade
Ably in Bytown's first decade.
And taught the art of Caxton well,
And thoroughly to John George Bell,
Who in our village made a racket,
In the old columns of the _Packet_,
Where every one got "tit for tat"
From dear departed "Old White Hat!"
Who thought Reformers could not err,
And laid the lash on Dawson Kerr,
Whom he in bitter hues did paint
A sinner, and called him "the saint."
A journal of more modern date
Than the _Gazette_, who's early fate,
Was Phoenix-like to rise resplendent
From ashes of the _Independent_,
Which had at periods now and then,
Emitted Sparks from Johnston's pen,
Which meteor-like shot forth in pride,
Blazed, flickered, then collapsed and died.
And Robert Hardy's name I find,
In the old days long left behind.
James Matthews, too, in death's repose,
In early times was one of those
Who helped to build the ancient town,
Which modern taste is pulling down,
Assisted now and then by fires,