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 honor!--
Oh! "Woodman, spare that tree!"
Her "man" the air is killing--
His organ's out of tune--
They're gone, with my last shilling, [See Notes (1)]
To Florence's saloon. [See Notes (2)]

New York is most compactly