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THE RECORDER.
173
While I’m alive to wear it;
And if, in whispering my name,
There’s music in the voice of fame
Like Garcia’s,11 let me hear it!
The Christmas holidays are nigh,
Therefore till New-Year’s Eve, good-by,
Then “revenons à nos moutons,”
Yourself and aldermen—meanwhile,
Look o’er this letter with a smile;
And keep the secret of its song
As faithfully, but not as long,
As you have guarded from the eyes
Of editorial Paul Prys,
And other meddling, murmuring claimants,
Those Eleusinian mysteries,
The city’s cash receipts and payments.
Yours ever,
T. C.
