"They've named a place for Irving, A trifle more deserving Than your French, foreign saints, But if he has such mention, It's past my comprehension Why Dobbs should cause complaints; Wrote histories and such things, About Old Knick and Dutch things, Dolph Heyligers and Rips; But no old antiquary Like him could keep a ferry, With all his authorships! "By aid of these same showmen, Some fanciful cognomen Old Cro'nest stock might bring As high as Butter Hill is, Which, patronized by Willis, Leaves cards now as 'Storm-King!' Can't some poetic swell-beau Re-christen old Crum Elbow And each prosaic bluff, Bold Breakneck gently flatter, And Dunderberg bespatter, With euphony and stuff! "'T would be a _magnum opus_ To bury old Esopus In Time's sepulchral vaults, Or in Oblivion's deep sea Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, And also ancient Paltz; How it would give them rapture Brave Stony Point to capture, And make it face about; Bid Rhinebeck sound much smoother Than in the tongue of Luther, And wipe the Catskills out! "Well, DOBBS is DOBBS, and faster Than pitch or mustard-plaster Shall it stick hereabouts, While Tappan Sea rolls yonder, Or round High Torn the thunder Along these ramparts shouts. No corner-lot banditti, Or brokers from the City-- Like you--" Here Dobbs began Wildly both oars to brandish, As fierce as old Miles Standish, Or young Phil Sheridan. Sternwards he rushed,--I, ducking, Seized both his legs, and chucking Dobbs sideways, splash he went,-- The wherry swayed, then righted, While I, somewhat excited, Over the water bent; Three times he rose, but vainly I clutched his form ungainly, He sank, while sighs and sobs Beneath the waves seemed muttered, And all the night-winds uttered In sad tones, "Dobbs! Dobbs! Dobbs!" Just then some giant boulders Upon my head and shoulders Made sudden, fearful raids, And on my face and forehead, With din and uproar horrid, Came several Palisades; I screamed, and woke, in screaming, To see, by gaslight's gleaming, Brown's face above my bed; "Why, Jack, what is the matter? We heard a dreadful clatter And found you on the shed! "It's plain enough, supposing You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, Upon the window's edge, Then lost yourself, and falling, Just where we found you, sprawling, Struck the piazza ledge; A lucky hit, old fellow, Of black and blue and yellow It gives your face a touch, You saved your neck, but barely; To state the matter fairly, You took a drop too much!"