| |
| WHERE the city’s rushing throng | |
| Beats its burly way along | |
| Whitehall Street, | |
| Up where giant buildings frown | |
| On the pygmy people, down | 5 |
| At their feet, | |
| |
| Lies a modest bit of park | |
| That the people seldom mark | |
| In their haste, | |
| As they scatter to and fro, | 10 |
| And like winds of heaven go, | |
| Fury-paced. | |
| |
| But within this green enclosed— | |
| Where the burghers, once reposed | |
| At their ease, | 15 |
| Or at bowls displayed their skill | |
| Summer afternoons to kill, | |
| If you please— | |
| |
| Reigns some magic of the past | |
| That, amid the noisy blast | 20 |
| All around, | |
| Sets a charm upon your ear | |
| As you enter, and you hear | |
| Not a sound; | |
| |
| Not a murmur, save the tone | 25 |
| Of a Dutchman, or the drone | |
| Of a bee; | |
| Or the laughter of a child | |
| As he scampers free and wild | |
| On the lea. | 30 |
| |
| You can see the Maying-time, | |
| When the maidens’ voices chime | |
| Joyous notes; | |
| When the Neltjies and the rest | |
| Are arrayed in all their best | 35 |
| Petticoats. | |
| |
| And they dance with such a grace, | |
| And they blush with such a face— | |
| Rose-and-cream— | |
| As they curtsey, sweet and shy, | 40 |
| That you wonder why you sigh | |
| As you dream. | |
| |
| For they’ve vanished long ago, | |
| Burgher, goede vrow and beau, | |
| Damsel fair; | 45 |
| And the smile that meets your eye, | |
| And the steps that patter by | |
| Are but air. | |
| |
| Yet, ’tis said that every night | |
| When the moon is shining bright | 50 |
| On the scene, | |
| Still the Dutchmen’s placid souls | |
| Play their solemn game of bowls | |
| On the Green. | |
| |
