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HERE is a gloom on every brow,
 * A sadness in each face we see;

The City Hall is lonely now,
 * The Franklin Bank looks wearily.

The Surgeons’ Hall in Barclay Street,
 * Wears to the eye a ghastlier hue!

And Staten Island’s Summer-seat
 * Has lost its best attractions too!

Well may we mourn a stage-and-four
 * (Our curse upon the rogue that drove it!)

From out our city lately bore
 * All that adorn, and grace, and love it.

Ah, little knew each scoundrel horse
 * How much they vexed, and grieved, and marred us;

They cared not sixpence for the loss
 * We feel in Colden and Bogardus.