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 Or in the dog-days, When the sun's fierce rays Set all in a blaze, And your blood seems to boil, And your butter turns oil, And the freshest of chops and steaks will spoil, And your face grows brown, And your collars drop down, And there isn't a soul that you know left in town, Save in Wall street, where Brokers, by way of preparing For the still hotter temperature whither they're faring, Keep shaving and cornering, bulling and bearing, (If the Editor shrinks From this stanza, and thinks Such an insinuation might possibly stop all his