| |
| UNSEAL the city fountains, | |
| And let the waters flow | |
| In coolness from the mountains | |
| Unto the plains below. | |
| My brain is parched and erring, | 5 |
| The pavement hot and dry, | |
| And not a breath is stirring | |
| Beneath the burning sky. | |
| |
| The belles have all departed— | |
| There does not linger one! | 10 |
| Of course the mart’s deserted | |
| By every mother’s son. | |
| Except the street musician, | |
| And men of lesser note, | |
| Whose only earthly mission | 15 |
| Seems but to toil and vote! | |
| |
| A woman—blessings on her!— | |
| Beneath my window see; | |
| She’s singing—what an honour!— | |
| Oh! “Woodman, spare that tree!” | 20 |
| Her “man” the air is killing— | |
| His organ’s out of tune— | |
| They’re gone with my last shilling, | |
| To Florence’s saloon. | |
| |
| New York is most compactly | 25 |
| Of brick and mortar made— | |
| Thermometer exactly | |
| One hundred in the shade! | |
| A furnace would be safer | |
| Than this my letter-room, | 30 |
| Where gleams the sun, a wafer | |
| About to seal my doom. | |
| |
| The town looks like an ogre, | |
| The country like a bride; | |
| Wealth hies to Saratoga | 35 |
| And Worth to Sunny-Side. | |
| While fashion seeks the islands | |
| Encircled by the sea, | |
| Taste finds the Hudson Highlands | |
| More beautiful and free. | 40 |
| |
| The omnibuses rumble | |
| Along their cobbled way— | |
| The “twelve inside” more humble | |
| Than he who takes the pay. | |
| From morn to midnight stealing, | 45 |
| His horses come and go— | |
| The only creatures feeling | |
| The “luxury of woe!” | |
| |
| A stillness and a sadness | |
| Pervade the City Hall, | 50 |
| And speculating madness | |
| Has left the street of Wall. | |
| The Union Square looks really | |
| Both desolate and dark, | |
| And that’s the case, or nearly, | 55 |
| From Battery to Park. | |
| |
| Had I a yacht like Miller, | |
| That skimmer of the seas— | |
| A wheel rigged like a tiller, | |
| And a fresh gunwale breeze, | 60 |
| A crew of friends well chosen, | |
| And all a-tauto, I | |
| Would sail for regions frozen— | |
| I’d rather freeze than fry. | |
| |
| I’m weeping like the willow | 65 |
| That droops in leaf and bough— | |
| Let Croton’s sparkling billow | |
| Flow through the city now; | |
| And, as becomes her station, | |
| The muse will close her prayer; | 70 |
| God save the Corporation! | |
| Long live the valiant Mayor! | |
| |
