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HON. E. W. HYDE, EX-MAYOR OF BATH.

UNDER the Anvil's spreading tree The Anvil's smithy sits; The Smith a mighty man is he In Sagady's politics. And when he pulls his hammer out It generally hits.

You see him in his sanctum here A sitting, at his ease, A thinking of whose scalp he'll take -- The Anvil on his knees. Whose will it be? I do not know. Unless it be Charles E's.

The Hyde men coming up to chat Drop in and stay to lunch; They love to hear the Anvil ring And hear the bellows crunch; And read the red hot stuff that serves To mutilate the Bunch.

For it sounds to them like "His Master's VoIce" "E. W.," thru and thru; And they needs must think with conscious pride What each of them can do To boost him in a proper way With bigger things in view.

Thanks, thanks to you, our worthy friend For the good work you have done; No conscious thought but's been for Bath, Since life for you begun. Why cavil if I think I hear This whisper -- "Washington?"

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