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Judge Warner says that, when he’s gone,
You’ll miss the true Dogberry breed;
And Christian swears that you have done
A most UN-Christian deed.

How could you have the heart to strike
From place the peerless Pierre Van Wyck?
And the twin colonels, Haines and Pell,
Squire Fessenden, and Sheriff Bell;
Morrell, a justice and a wise one,
And Ned McLaughlin the exciseman;
The two health-officers, believers
In Clinton and contagious fevers;
The keeper of the city’s treasures,
The sealer of her weights and measures,
The harbor-master, her best bower
Cable in party’s stormy hour;
Ten auctioneers, three bank directors,
And Mott and Duffy, the inspectors
Of whiskey and of flour!

It was but yesterday they stood
All (ex-officio) great and good.
But by the tomahawk struck down
Of party and of Walter Bowne,
Where are they now? With shapes of air,
The caravan of things that were,
Journeying to their nameless home,
Like Mecca’s pilgrims from her tomb;