Classic Poem

Afar in the ages of quaint renown
There ruled o'er the germ of this mighty town
A potentate, famed for a wondrous knack
Of breeding dissension and brewing wrack.
Oh, he was a tart little pepper-pot!
A simmering kettle, forever hot!
A hedgehog abristle with puissant ire,
A little volcano of smothered fire;
Forever intruding a muddling hand
In matters beyond him to understand,
Upsetting the work of a dozen men
And fuming and fussing enough for ten.
A meddlesome, quarrelsome, peevish sprite,
He bustled and bickered from dawn till night.
He troubled his folk with a hundred griefs:
He kindled the rage of the savage chiefs,
And tomahawk, arrow, and brand came down
Through desolate fields to a mourning town.

Though skilled in the practice of wordy strife
And cursed with a tongue like a poisoned knife,
He fronted a foeman of like degree
When he blundered afoul of the Dominie.
For Parson Bogardus, the stern and leal,
Was deeply concerned for the public weal,
And loudly he thundered in strong dispraise,
Denouncing the governor's evil ways.
“The preacher's a sot!” came the fierce retort;
“His sermons are stupid and none too short!”
Small wonder, forsooth, that the parson dinned
His wrath from the pulpit: “Ach! Duyvil's kind!
Defamer of righteousness!” then a roar—
“My goats are as good as the governor!”
The magistrate's vengeance was swift and fell;
He marshaled his troops at the stroke of bell,
And vainly the Dominie strove to cheer
The sinning and sorrowful; every ear
With drum-roll and trumpet and martial sound
Was filled, and the sermon was wholly drowned!

The burghers, aghast at the wild debate
And utter disruption of Church and state,
Deported the disputants out of hand
To settle their feud in the fatherland.
The governor burdened the vessel's hold
With marvelous treasure of goblin gold

Achieved under starlight and lantern-glow
In the mystical mines of the Ramapo.
Thus laden, the vessel was tempest tossed,
And parson and governor both were lost!
Yet—there is a legend in hut and hall
That Governor Kieft wasn't drowned at all!
But, spirited off with his fairy gold,
He drowses and dreams in a mountain hold
Like Arthur, or Ogier the lordly Dane,
Some day to return to his own domain.

And now when a bickering breaks the gloom
And wakens old ghosts in the mayor's room,
When portly commissioners dread the ban
That darts from the orbs of a mighty man,
When frightened attendants stand quaking by
And browbeat petitioners turn and fly,
Methinks he hath come to his home once more—
The stanch little burgh on the Hudson's shore;
'Tis William the Testy, no modern sham,
That governs the town of New Amsterdam!