Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/94

THE DUTCH PATROL Nine lusty forms in linsey coats,

Puffed sleeves and ample hose!

Each burgher smokes a Flemish pipe

To warm his ancient nose;

The smoke-wreaths rise like mist,

The smokers all are mute,

Yet all, with pipes thrice waving slow,

Brave Stuyvesant salute.

Then into ranks they fall,

And step out three by three,

And he of the wooden leg and staff

In front walks solemnly.

Along their wonted course

The phantom troop patrol,

To see how fares Nieuw Amsterdam,

And what the years unroll.

Street after street and mile on mile,

From river bound to bound,

From old St. Mark's to Whitehall Point,

They foot the limits round;

From Maiden Lane to Corlaer's Hook

The Dutchmen's pypen glow,

But never a word from their lips is heard,

And none their passing know.

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