Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.

Bowling Green

Louise Morgan Sill

WHERE the city’s rushing throng

Beats its burly way along

Whitehall Street,

Up where giant buildings frown

On the pygmy people, down

At their feet,

Lies a modest bit of park

That the people seldom mark

In their haste,

As they scatter to and fro,

And like winds of heaven go,

Fury-paced.

But within this green enclosed—

Where the burghers, once reposed

At their ease,

Or at bowls displayed their skill

Summer afternoons to kill,

If you please—

Reigns some magic of the past

That, amid the noisy blast

All around,

Sets a charm upon your ear

As you enter, and you hear

Not a sound;

Not a murmur, save the tone

Of a Dutchman, or the drone

Of a bee;

Or the laughter of a child

As he scampers free and wild

On the lea.

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

Petticoats.

And they dance with such a grace,

And they blush with such a face—

Rose-and-cream—

As they curtsey, sweet and shy,

That you wonder why you sigh

As you dream.

For they’ve vanished long ago,

Burgher, goede vrow and beau,

Damsel fair;

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

On the scene,

Still the Dutchmen’s placid souls

Play their solemn game of bowls

On the Green.