Classic Poem

(To the Belles of New York.)

What burgh so poore it cannot boaste
Of comely maids, a gentle hoste?
What hamlet ye have wandered bye
Was lit not by a damsel's eye?
And ye do welle, ye swains, to trye
Their praises wide to winge;
But saye no worde
Till I be hearde,
While Dutche Towne Girles I singe!

Thysse Towne I singe lyes near ye shore
And holds two million soules or more;
Yet it doth growe in such a waye
Two million scarce would be astraye;
Regarding whiche some folke do saye —
And 'tis a harmlesse thinge —
That thysse is due
Largely to you —
Ye Dutche Towne Girles I singe.

So waxes Dutche Towne more and more;
Each pretty maid attracts a score
Of other folke, as ye knowe welle,
The while they flocke from hille and delle,
Here in a mighty clanne to dwelle
And wide their edicts flinge;
So greate the power
Is at thysse houre
Of Dutche Towne Girles I singe.

For they can dresse so brave and neate
From comely head to dainty feete,
With proper snood or jaunty hatte,
A bodice neither round nor flatte —
And skirts that match like tit for tat —
Could he but see them swinge,
Old Peter Stuy —
Vesant would eye
These Dutche Towne Girles I singe!

And since their grandmammas were seene
On Battery Walle and Bowling Greene,
With stately heads y' powdered welle,
No other damsels may excelle
Those whose fine grace I cannot telle
As on Broadway in Springe,
Like flowers a-rowe
They gaily goe —
Fair Dutche Towne Girles I singe!

Nor doe they all neglect ye minde
To culture welle, as ye will finde.
With a sweet studiousness of lookes
They often browse on goodlye bookes;
They babble French like merry brookes,
Anon some sampler bringe
That showes their parte
In works of Arte —
Wise Dutche Towne Girles I singe.

A racquet they can swinge so feate,
Or sit a prancing steede so fleete,
That one would be a foole to saye
It should be done another waye.
And when their fingers lightly straye
Upon ye trembling stringe,
They charme ye aire
With musick rare —
Sweet Dutche Towne Girles I singe!

Then gaily decked in Kirmesse stalle
Their glances holde my hearte in thralle,
Or on ye coach-box seated highe
Their beauty shines against ye skye,
Or when ye fiddler's fingers flye —
Grouped in a merrye ringe,
With slippered feete
None dance so neate
As Dutche Towne Girles I singe.

True that from these ye mighte not knowe
They cared for aughte but worldlye showe;
Yet when ye Sabbath spreads its skies
They bowe ye head with closed eyes;
And many mornings as I rise
I see them sweetly bring
Such goodlye loades
To poor abodes —
Kind Dutche Towne Girles I singe.

So, swains, I rede ye to beware
Our Dutche Towne Girles, and if ye care
For other maid with her abide,
And shield your hearte and eke your pride
From eyes that kille so farre and wide
Ye cloven-footed kinge
In terror flees
Whene'er he sees
Our Dutche Towne Girles I singe!