1.Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;He has brought her home to his bower and bed.Hither and thither the birds fly home.Her hair is darker than thick of night;Wild winds whistle, &c.Her hands are fair, and her step is light.Hither and thither, &c.From out his castel in the NorthSir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth.Three things he left her for good or ill,—A bonny bird that should sing at will,With carol sweeter than silver bell,Day and night in the old castel;A lithe little page to gather flowers;And a crystal dial to mark the hours.2.Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speedAway to the chase on his faithful steed.From morning till night, the first day long,She sat and listened the bonny bird’s song.The second day long, with fingers fair,She curled and combed her page’s hair.The third day’s sun rose up on high;By the dial she was seated nigh:She loathed the bird and the page’s face,And counted the shadow’s creeping pace.3.The strange knight drew his bridle-rein;He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain.“O lady!” he said, “’twas a sin and shameTo leave for the chase so fair a dame.“O lady!” he said, “we two will fleeTo the blithesome land of Italie;“There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine,And a bower of myrtle shall be thine.”He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth:Now Ho! sing Ho! for the sunny South.He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist:Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste!4.Sir Ulric back from the chase has come,And sounds the horn at his castel-home.Or ever he drew his bridle-rein,He saw the dial split in twain;The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead,And the lithe little page hung down his head.The lithe little page hung down his head;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;“O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled?”Hither and thither the birds fly home.
1.Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;He has brought her home to his bower and bed.Hither and thither the birds fly home.Her hair is darker than thick of night;Wild winds whistle, &c.Her hands are fair, and her step is light.Hither and thither, &c.From out his castel in the NorthSir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth.Three things he left her for good or ill,—A bonny bird that should sing at will,With carol sweeter than silver bell,Day and night in the old castel;A lithe little page to gather flowers;And a crystal dial to mark the hours.2.Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speedAway to the chase on his faithful steed.From morning till night, the first day long,She sat and listened the bonny bird’s song.The second day long, with fingers fair,She curled and combed her page’s hair.The third day’s sun rose up on high;By the dial she was seated nigh:She loathed the bird and the page’s face,And counted the shadow’s creeping pace.3.The strange knight drew his bridle-rein;He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain.“O lady!” he said, “’twas a sin and shameTo leave for the chase so fair a dame.“O lady!” he said, “we two will fleeTo the blithesome land of Italie;“There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine,And a bower of myrtle shall be thine.”He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth:Now Ho! sing Ho! for the sunny South.He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist:Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste!4.Sir Ulric back from the chase has come,And sounds the horn at his castel-home.Or ever he drew his bridle-rein,He saw the dial split in twain;The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead,And the lithe little page hung down his head.The lithe little page hung down his head;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;“O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled?”Hither and thither the birds fly home.
1.
Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;He has brought her home to his bower and bed.Hither and thither the birds fly home.
Sir Ulric a Southern dame has wed;
Wild winds whistle and snow is come;
He has brought her home to his bower and bed.
Hither and thither the birds fly home.
Her hair is darker than thick of night;Wild winds whistle, &c.Her hands are fair, and her step is light.Hither and thither, &c.
Her hair is darker than thick of night;
Wild winds whistle, &c.
Her hands are fair, and her step is light.
Hither and thither, &c.
From out his castel in the NorthSir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth.
From out his castel in the North
Sir Ulric to hunt rode lightly forth.
Three things he left her for good or ill,—A bonny bird that should sing at will,
Three things he left her for good or ill,—
A bonny bird that should sing at will,
With carol sweeter than silver bell,Day and night in the old castel;
With carol sweeter than silver bell,
Day and night in the old castel;
A lithe little page to gather flowers;And a crystal dial to mark the hours.
A lithe little page to gather flowers;
And a crystal dial to mark the hours.
2.
Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speedAway to the chase on his faithful steed.
Lady Margaret watched Sir Ulric speed
Away to the chase on his faithful steed.
From morning till night, the first day long,She sat and listened the bonny bird’s song.
From morning till night, the first day long,
She sat and listened the bonny bird’s song.
The second day long, with fingers fair,She curled and combed her page’s hair.
The second day long, with fingers fair,
She curled and combed her page’s hair.
The third day’s sun rose up on high;By the dial she was seated nigh:
The third day’s sun rose up on high;
By the dial she was seated nigh:
She loathed the bird and the page’s face,And counted the shadow’s creeping pace.
She loathed the bird and the page’s face,
And counted the shadow’s creeping pace.
3.
The strange knight drew his bridle-rein;He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain.
The strange knight drew his bridle-rein;
He looked at the sky and he looked at the plain.
“O lady!” he said, “’twas a sin and shameTo leave for the chase so fair a dame.
“O lady!” he said, “’twas a sin and shame
To leave for the chase so fair a dame.
“O lady!” he said, “we two will fleeTo the blithesome land of Italie;
“O lady!” he said, “we two will flee
To the blithesome land of Italie;
“There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine,And a bower of myrtle shall be thine.”
“There the orange grows, and the fruitful vine,
And a bower of myrtle shall be thine.”
He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth:Now Ho! sing Ho! for the sunny South.
He has taken her hand and kissed her mouth:
Now Ho! sing Ho! for the sunny South.
He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist:Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste!
He has kissed her mouth and clasped her waist:
Now, good gray steed, make haste, make haste!
4.
Sir Ulric back from the chase has come,And sounds the horn at his castel-home.
Sir Ulric back from the chase has come,
And sounds the horn at his castel-home.
Or ever he drew his bridle-rein,He saw the dial split in twain;
Or ever he drew his bridle-rein,
He saw the dial split in twain;
The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead,And the lithe little page hung down his head.
The bonny blithe bird was stark and dead,
And the lithe little page hung down his head.
The lithe little page hung down his head;Wild winds whistle and snow is come;“O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled?”Hither and thither the birds fly home.
The lithe little page hung down his head;
Wild winds whistle and snow is come;
“O where, Sir Page, has my lady fled?”
Hither and thither the birds fly home.
Where nowadays the Battery lies,New York had just begun,A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,In Sixteen Sixty-One.They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,Those burghers grave and stately,And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,Lived out their lives sedately.Two windmills topped their wooden wall,On Stadthuys gazing down,On fort, and cabbage-plots, and allThe quaintly gabled town;These flapped their wings and shifted backs,As ancient scrolls determine,To scare the savage Hackensacks,Paumanks, and other vermin.At night the loyal settlers layBetwixt their feather-beds;In hose and breeches walked by day,And smoked, and wagged their heads.No changeful fashions came from France,The vrouwleins to bewilder;No broad-brimmed burgher spent for pantsHis every other guilder.In petticoats of linsey-red,And jackets neatly kept,The vrouws their knitting-needles spedAnd deftly spun and swept.Few modern-school flirtations thereSet wheels of scandal trundling,But youths and maidens did their shareOf staid, old-fashioned bundling.—The New Year opened clear and cold;The snow, a Flemish ellIn depth, lay over Beeckman’s WoldAnd Wolfert’s frozen well.Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,Drew on his Holland leather,Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,Beshrewing all such weather.But—after herring, ham, and kraut—To all the gathered townThe Dominie preached the morning out,In Calvanistic gown;While tough old Peter StuyvesantSat pewed in foremost station,—The potent, sage, and valiantThird Governor of the nation.Prayer over, at his mansion hall,With cake and courtly smileHe met the people, one and all,In gubernatorial style;Yet missed, though now the day was old,An ancient fellow-feaster,—Heer Govert Loockermans, that boldBrewer and burgomeester;Who, in his farm-house, close withoutThe picket’s eastern end,Sat growling at the twinge of goutThat kept him from his friend.But Peter strapped his wooden peg,When tea and cake were ended(Meanwhile the sound remaining legIts high jack-boot defended),A woolsey cloak about him threw,And swore, by wind and limb,Since Govert kept from Peter’s view,Peter would visit him;Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,While many a humble greeterStood wondering whereaway so fastStrode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.Past quay and cowpath, through a laneOf vats and mounded tans,He puffed along, with might and main,To Govert Loockermans;Once there, his right of entry took,And hailed his ancient crony:“Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,Ve gets more snow as money!”To which, till after whiffs profound,The other answered not;At last there came responsive sound:“Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gott!”Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guestBeneath the chimney-gable,And courtesied, bustling at her bestTo spread the New Year’s table.She brought the pure and genial schnapps,That years before had come—In the “Nieuw Nederlandts,” perhaps—To cheer the settlers’ home;The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant rollOf pressed and crispy Spanish;Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,Nor long delayed to vanish.Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,And honors of the day,The trader mixed the Governor’s drinkAs evening sped away.That ancient room! I see it now:The carven nutwood dresser;The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouwBegrudged their rich possessor;The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,Brass-nailed at every seam;Six others, ranged in equal pairs;The bacon hung abeam;The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;The hearty wooden fire;The picture, on the steaming delft,Of David and Goliah.I see the two old Dutchmen sitLike Magog and his mate,And hear them, when their pipes are lit,Discuss affairs of state:The clique that would their sway demean;The pestilent importationOf wooden nutmegs, from the leanAnd losel Yankee nation.But when the subtle juniperAssumed its sure command,They drank the buxom loves that were,—They drank the Motherland;They drank the famous Swedish wars,Stout Peter’s special glory,While Govert proudly showed the scarsOf Indian contests gory.Erelong, the berry’s power awokeSome music in their brains,And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,Rang long-forgotten strains,—Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,Of phantom ships and battle;And Peter, with his leg of wood,Made floor and casement rattle.Then round and round the dresser pranced,The chairs began to wheel,And on the board the punch-bowl dancedA Netherlandish reel;Till midnight o’er the farm-house spreadHer New-Year’s skirts of sable,And, inch by inch, each puzzled headDropt down upon the table.But still to Peter, as he dreamed,That table spread and turned;The chimney-log blazed high, and seemedTo circle as it burned;The town into the vision grewFrom ending to beginning;Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,All widening and spinning.The cowpaths, leading to the docks,Grew broader, whirling past,And checkered into shining blocks,—A city fair and vast;Stores, churches, mansions, overspreadThe metamorphosed island,While not a beaver showed his headFrom Swamp to Kalchook highland.Eftsoons the picture passed away;Hours after, Peter wokeTo see a spectral streak of dayGleam in through fading smoke;Still slept old Govert, snoring onIn most melodious numbers;No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-OneCommingled with his slumbers.But Peter, from the farm-house door,Gazed doubtfully around,Rejoiced to find himself once moreOn sure and solid ground.The sky was somewhat dark ahead,Wind east, and morning lowery;And on he pushed, a two-miles’ tread,To breakfast at his Bouwery.
Where nowadays the Battery lies,New York had just begun,A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,In Sixteen Sixty-One.They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,Those burghers grave and stately,And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,Lived out their lives sedately.Two windmills topped their wooden wall,On Stadthuys gazing down,On fort, and cabbage-plots, and allThe quaintly gabled town;These flapped their wings and shifted backs,As ancient scrolls determine,To scare the savage Hackensacks,Paumanks, and other vermin.At night the loyal settlers layBetwixt their feather-beds;In hose and breeches walked by day,And smoked, and wagged their heads.No changeful fashions came from France,The vrouwleins to bewilder;No broad-brimmed burgher spent for pantsHis every other guilder.In petticoats of linsey-red,And jackets neatly kept,The vrouws their knitting-needles spedAnd deftly spun and swept.Few modern-school flirtations thereSet wheels of scandal trundling,But youths and maidens did their shareOf staid, old-fashioned bundling.—The New Year opened clear and cold;The snow, a Flemish ellIn depth, lay over Beeckman’s WoldAnd Wolfert’s frozen well.Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,Drew on his Holland leather,Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,Beshrewing all such weather.But—after herring, ham, and kraut—To all the gathered townThe Dominie preached the morning out,In Calvanistic gown;While tough old Peter StuyvesantSat pewed in foremost station,—The potent, sage, and valiantThird Governor of the nation.Prayer over, at his mansion hall,With cake and courtly smileHe met the people, one and all,In gubernatorial style;Yet missed, though now the day was old,An ancient fellow-feaster,—Heer Govert Loockermans, that boldBrewer and burgomeester;Who, in his farm-house, close withoutThe picket’s eastern end,Sat growling at the twinge of goutThat kept him from his friend.But Peter strapped his wooden peg,When tea and cake were ended(Meanwhile the sound remaining legIts high jack-boot defended),A woolsey cloak about him threw,And swore, by wind and limb,Since Govert kept from Peter’s view,Peter would visit him;Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,While many a humble greeterStood wondering whereaway so fastStrode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.Past quay and cowpath, through a laneOf vats and mounded tans,He puffed along, with might and main,To Govert Loockermans;Once there, his right of entry took,And hailed his ancient crony:“Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,Ve gets more snow as money!”To which, till after whiffs profound,The other answered not;At last there came responsive sound:“Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gott!”Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guestBeneath the chimney-gable,And courtesied, bustling at her bestTo spread the New Year’s table.She brought the pure and genial schnapps,That years before had come—In the “Nieuw Nederlandts,” perhaps—To cheer the settlers’ home;The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant rollOf pressed and crispy Spanish;Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,Nor long delayed to vanish.Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,And honors of the day,The trader mixed the Governor’s drinkAs evening sped away.That ancient room! I see it now:The carven nutwood dresser;The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouwBegrudged their rich possessor;The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,Brass-nailed at every seam;Six others, ranged in equal pairs;The bacon hung abeam;The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;The hearty wooden fire;The picture, on the steaming delft,Of David and Goliah.I see the two old Dutchmen sitLike Magog and his mate,And hear them, when their pipes are lit,Discuss affairs of state:The clique that would their sway demean;The pestilent importationOf wooden nutmegs, from the leanAnd losel Yankee nation.But when the subtle juniperAssumed its sure command,They drank the buxom loves that were,—They drank the Motherland;They drank the famous Swedish wars,Stout Peter’s special glory,While Govert proudly showed the scarsOf Indian contests gory.Erelong, the berry’s power awokeSome music in their brains,And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,Rang long-forgotten strains,—Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,Of phantom ships and battle;And Peter, with his leg of wood,Made floor and casement rattle.Then round and round the dresser pranced,The chairs began to wheel,And on the board the punch-bowl dancedA Netherlandish reel;Till midnight o’er the farm-house spreadHer New-Year’s skirts of sable,And, inch by inch, each puzzled headDropt down upon the table.But still to Peter, as he dreamed,That table spread and turned;The chimney-log blazed high, and seemedTo circle as it burned;The town into the vision grewFrom ending to beginning;Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,All widening and spinning.The cowpaths, leading to the docks,Grew broader, whirling past,And checkered into shining blocks,—A city fair and vast;Stores, churches, mansions, overspreadThe metamorphosed island,While not a beaver showed his headFrom Swamp to Kalchook highland.Eftsoons the picture passed away;Hours after, Peter wokeTo see a spectral streak of dayGleam in through fading smoke;Still slept old Govert, snoring onIn most melodious numbers;No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-OneCommingled with his slumbers.But Peter, from the farm-house door,Gazed doubtfully around,Rejoiced to find himself once moreOn sure and solid ground.The sky was somewhat dark ahead,Wind east, and morning lowery;And on he pushed, a two-miles’ tread,To breakfast at his Bouwery.
Where nowadays the Battery lies,New York had just begun,A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,In Sixteen Sixty-One.They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,Those burghers grave and stately,And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,Lived out their lives sedately.
Where nowadays the Battery lies,
New York had just begun,
A new-born babe, to rub its eyes,
In Sixteen Sixty-One.
They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam,
Those burghers grave and stately,
And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm,
Lived out their lives sedately.
Two windmills topped their wooden wall,On Stadthuys gazing down,On fort, and cabbage-plots, and allThe quaintly gabled town;These flapped their wings and shifted backs,As ancient scrolls determine,To scare the savage Hackensacks,Paumanks, and other vermin.
Two windmills topped their wooden wall,
On Stadthuys gazing down,
On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all
The quaintly gabled town;
These flapped their wings and shifted backs,
As ancient scrolls determine,
To scare the savage Hackensacks,
Paumanks, and other vermin.
At night the loyal settlers layBetwixt their feather-beds;In hose and breeches walked by day,And smoked, and wagged their heads.No changeful fashions came from France,The vrouwleins to bewilder;No broad-brimmed burgher spent for pantsHis every other guilder.
At night the loyal settlers lay
Betwixt their feather-beds;
In hose and breeches walked by day,
And smoked, and wagged their heads.
No changeful fashions came from France,
The vrouwleins to bewilder;
No broad-brimmed burgher spent for pants
His every other guilder.
In petticoats of linsey-red,And jackets neatly kept,The vrouws their knitting-needles spedAnd deftly spun and swept.Few modern-school flirtations thereSet wheels of scandal trundling,But youths and maidens did their shareOf staid, old-fashioned bundling.
In petticoats of linsey-red,
And jackets neatly kept,
The vrouws their knitting-needles sped
And deftly spun and swept.
Few modern-school flirtations there
Set wheels of scandal trundling,
But youths and maidens did their share
Of staid, old-fashioned bundling.
—The New Year opened clear and cold;The snow, a Flemish ellIn depth, lay over Beeckman’s WoldAnd Wolfert’s frozen well.Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,Drew on his Holland leather,Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,Beshrewing all such weather.
—The New Year opened clear and cold;
The snow, a Flemish ell
In depth, lay over Beeckman’s Wold
And Wolfert’s frozen well.
Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors,
Drew on his Holland leather,
Then stamped through drifts to do the chores,
Beshrewing all such weather.
But—after herring, ham, and kraut—To all the gathered townThe Dominie preached the morning out,In Calvanistic gown;While tough old Peter StuyvesantSat pewed in foremost station,—The potent, sage, and valiantThird Governor of the nation.
But—after herring, ham, and kraut—
To all the gathered town
The Dominie preached the morning out,
In Calvanistic gown;
While tough old Peter Stuyvesant
Sat pewed in foremost station,—
The potent, sage, and valiant
Third Governor of the nation.
Prayer over, at his mansion hall,With cake and courtly smileHe met the people, one and all,In gubernatorial style;Yet missed, though now the day was old,An ancient fellow-feaster,—Heer Govert Loockermans, that boldBrewer and burgomeester;
Prayer over, at his mansion hall,
With cake and courtly smile
He met the people, one and all,
In gubernatorial style;
Yet missed, though now the day was old,
An ancient fellow-feaster,—
Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold
Brewer and burgomeester;
Who, in his farm-house, close withoutThe picket’s eastern end,Sat growling at the twinge of goutThat kept him from his friend.But Peter strapped his wooden peg,When tea and cake were ended(Meanwhile the sound remaining legIts high jack-boot defended),
Who, in his farm-house, close without
The picket’s eastern end,
Sat growling at the twinge of gout
That kept him from his friend.
But Peter strapped his wooden peg,
When tea and cake were ended
(Meanwhile the sound remaining leg
Its high jack-boot defended),
A woolsey cloak about him threw,And swore, by wind and limb,Since Govert kept from Peter’s view,Peter would visit him;Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,While many a humble greeterStood wondering whereaway so fastStrode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.
A woolsey cloak about him threw,
And swore, by wind and limb,
Since Govert kept from Peter’s view,
Peter would visit him;
Then sallied forth, through snow and blast,
While many a humble greeter
Stood wondering whereaway so fast
Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.
Past quay and cowpath, through a laneOf vats and mounded tans,He puffed along, with might and main,To Govert Loockermans;Once there, his right of entry took,And hailed his ancient crony:“Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,Ve gets more snow as money!”
Past quay and cowpath, through a lane
Of vats and mounded tans,
He puffed along, with might and main,
To Govert Loockermans;
Once there, his right of entry took,
And hailed his ancient crony:
“Myn Gott! in dese Manhattoes, Loock,
Ve gets more snow as money!”
To which, till after whiffs profound,The other answered not;At last there came responsive sound:“Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gott!”Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guestBeneath the chimney-gable,And courtesied, bustling at her bestTo spread the New Year’s table.
To which, till after whiffs profound,
The other answered not;
At last there came responsive sound:
“Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gott!”
Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest
Beneath the chimney-gable,
And courtesied, bustling at her best
To spread the New Year’s table.
She brought the pure and genial schnapps,That years before had come—In the “Nieuw Nederlandts,” perhaps—To cheer the settlers’ home;The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant rollOf pressed and crispy Spanish;Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,Nor long delayed to vanish.
She brought the pure and genial schnapps,
That years before had come—
In the “Nieuw Nederlandts,” perhaps—
To cheer the settlers’ home;
The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll
Of pressed and crispy Spanish;
Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl,
Nor long delayed to vanish.
Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,And honors of the day,The trader mixed the Governor’s drinkAs evening sped away.That ancient room! I see it now:The carven nutwood dresser;The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouwBegrudged their rich possessor;
Thereat, with cheery nod and wink,
And honors of the day,
The trader mixed the Governor’s drink
As evening sped away.
That ancient room! I see it now:
The carven nutwood dresser;
The drawers, that many a burgher’s vrouw
Begrudged their rich possessor;
The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,Brass-nailed at every seam;Six others, ranged in equal pairs;The bacon hung abeam;The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;The hearty wooden fire;The picture, on the steaming delft,Of David and Goliah.
The brace of high-backed leathern chairs,
Brass-nailed at every seam;
Six others, ranged in equal pairs;
The bacon hung abeam;
The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft;
The hearty wooden fire;
The picture, on the steaming delft,
Of David and Goliah.
I see the two old Dutchmen sitLike Magog and his mate,And hear them, when their pipes are lit,Discuss affairs of state:The clique that would their sway demean;The pestilent importationOf wooden nutmegs, from the leanAnd losel Yankee nation.
I see the two old Dutchmen sit
Like Magog and his mate,
And hear them, when their pipes are lit,
Discuss affairs of state:
The clique that would their sway demean;
The pestilent importation
Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean
And losel Yankee nation.
But when the subtle juniperAssumed its sure command,They drank the buxom loves that were,—They drank the Motherland;They drank the famous Swedish wars,Stout Peter’s special glory,While Govert proudly showed the scarsOf Indian contests gory.
But when the subtle juniper
Assumed its sure command,
They drank the buxom loves that were,—
They drank the Motherland;
They drank the famous Swedish wars,
Stout Peter’s special glory,
While Govert proudly showed the scars
Of Indian contests gory.
Erelong, the berry’s power awokeSome music in their brains,And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,Rang long-forgotten strains,—Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,Of phantom ships and battle;And Peter, with his leg of wood,Made floor and casement rattle.
Erelong, the berry’s power awoke
Some music in their brains,
And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke,
Rang long-forgotten strains,—
Old Flemish snatches, full of blood,
Of phantom ships and battle;
And Peter, with his leg of wood,
Made floor and casement rattle.
Then round and round the dresser pranced,The chairs began to wheel,And on the board the punch-bowl dancedA Netherlandish reel;Till midnight o’er the farm-house spreadHer New-Year’s skirts of sable,And, inch by inch, each puzzled headDropt down upon the table.
Then round and round the dresser pranced,
The chairs began to wheel,
And on the board the punch-bowl danced
A Netherlandish reel;
Till midnight o’er the farm-house spread
Her New-Year’s skirts of sable,
And, inch by inch, each puzzled head
Dropt down upon the table.
But still to Peter, as he dreamed,That table spread and turned;The chimney-log blazed high, and seemedTo circle as it burned;The town into the vision grewFrom ending to beginning;Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,All widening and spinning.
But still to Peter, as he dreamed,
That table spread and turned;
The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed
To circle as it burned;
The town into the vision grew
From ending to beginning;
Fort, wall, and windmill met his view,
All widening and spinning.
The cowpaths, leading to the docks,Grew broader, whirling past,And checkered into shining blocks,—A city fair and vast;Stores, churches, mansions, overspreadThe metamorphosed island,While not a beaver showed his headFrom Swamp to Kalchook highland.
The cowpaths, leading to the docks,
Grew broader, whirling past,
And checkered into shining blocks,—
A city fair and vast;
Stores, churches, mansions, overspread
The metamorphosed island,
While not a beaver showed his head
From Swamp to Kalchook highland.
Eftsoons the picture passed away;Hours after, Peter wokeTo see a spectral streak of dayGleam in through fading smoke;Still slept old Govert, snoring onIn most melodious numbers;No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-OneCommingled with his slumbers.
Eftsoons the picture passed away;
Hours after, Peter woke
To see a spectral streak of day
Gleam in through fading smoke;
Still slept old Govert, snoring on
In most melodious numbers;
No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One
Commingled with his slumbers.
But Peter, from the farm-house door,Gazed doubtfully around,Rejoiced to find himself once moreOn sure and solid ground.The sky was somewhat dark ahead,Wind east, and morning lowery;And on he pushed, a two-miles’ tread,To breakfast at his Bouwery.
But Peter, from the farm-house door,
Gazed doubtfully around,
Rejoiced to find himself once more
On sure and solid ground.
The sky was somewhat dark ahead,
Wind east, and morning lowery;
And on he pushed, a two-miles’ tread,
To breakfast at his Bouwery.