BALLAD OF NEW AMSTERDAM

There are no bowls on Bowling Green,

No maids in Maiden lane;

The river path to Greenwich

No longer doth remain.

No longer in the Bouwerie

Stands Peter Stuyvesant his tree!

And yet the Dutchmen built their dorp

With sturdy wit and will;

In Nassau street their spectral feet

Are heard to echo still.

In many places sure I am

New York is still Nieuw Amsterdam.

Sometimes at night in Bowling Green

There comes a rumbling sound,

Which literal minds are wont to think

The Subway. But I found

That still the Dutchmen ease their souls

By playing ghostly games of bowls!