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Home  »  The Book of New York Verse  »  George P. Morris

Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.

The Dog-Star Rages, 1850

George P. Morris

UNSEAL the city fountains,

And let the waters flow

In coolness from the mountains

Unto the plains below.

My brain is parched and erring,

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!

Of course the mart’s deserted

By every mother’s son.

Except the street musician,

And men of lesser note,

Whose only earthly mission

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!”

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

Of brick and mortar made—

Thermometer exactly

One hundred in the shade!

A furnace would be safer

Than this my letter-room,

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

And Worth to Sunny-Side.

While fashion seeks the islands

Encircled by the sea,

Taste finds the Hudson Highlands

More beautiful and free.

The omnibuses rumble

Along their cobbled way—

The “twelve inside” more humble

Than he who takes the pay.

From morn to midnight stealing,

His horses come and go—

The only creatures feeling

The “luxury of woe!”

A stillness and a sadness

Pervade the City Hall,

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,

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,

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

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;

God save the Corporation!

Long live the valiant Mayor!