I'd rather freeze than fry.

Oh, this confounded weather!
(As some one sang or said,)
My pen, thought but a feather,
Is heavier than lead;
At every pore I'm oosing--
(I'm "caving in" to-day)--
My plumptitude I'm losing,
And dripping fast away.

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! [See Notes (6)]





A Legend of the Mohawk.




In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,