"THE Dutch have taken Holland,"--so the schoolboys used to say; The Dutch have taken Harvard,--no doubt of that to-day! For the Wendells were low Dutchmen, and all their vrows were Vans; And the Breitmanns are high Dutchmen, and here is honest Hans. Mynheers, you both are welcome! Fair cousin Wendell P., Our ancestors were dwellers beside the Zuyder Zee; Both Grotius and Erasmus were countrymen of we, And Vondel was our namesake, though he spelt it with a V. It is well old Evert Jansen sought a dwelling over sea On the margin of the Hudson, where he sampled you and me Through our grandsires and great-grandsires, for you would n't quite agree With the steady-going burghers along the Zuyder Zee. Like our Motley's John of Barnveld, you have always been inclined To speak,--well,--somewhat frankly,--to let us know your mind, And the Mynheers would have told you to be cautious what you said, Or else that silver tongue of yours might cost your precious head. But we're very glad you've kept it; it was always Freedom's own, And whenever Reason chose it she found a royal throne; You have whacked us with your sceptre; our backs were little harmed, And while we rubbed our bruises we owned we had been charmed. And you, our quasi Dutchman, what welcome should be yours For all the wise prescriptions that work your laughter-cures? "Shake before taking"?--not a bit,--the bottle-cure's a sham; Take before shaking, and you 'll find it shakes your diaphragm. "Hans Breitmann gif a barty,--vhere is dot barty now?" On every shelf where wit is stored to smooth the careworn brow A health to stout Hans Breitmann! How long before we see Another Hans as handsome,--as bright a man as he! THE FLANEUR BOSTON COMMON, DECEMBER 6, 1882 DURING THE TRANSIT OF VENUS I LOVE all sights of earth and skies, From flowers that glow to stars that shine; The comet and the penny show, All curious things, above, below, Hold each in turn my wandering eyes: I claim the Christian Pagan's line, _Humani nihil_,--even so,-- And is not human life divine? When soft the western breezes blow, And strolling youths meet sauntering maids, I love to watch the stirring trades Beneath the Vallombrosa shades Our much-enduring elms bestow; The vender and his rhetoric's flow, That lambent stream of liquid lies; The bait he dangles from his line, The gudgeon and his gold-washed prize. I halt before the blazoned sign That bids me linger to admire The drama time can never tire, The little hero of the hunch, With iron arm and soul of fire, And will that works his fierce desire,-- Untamed, unscared, unconquered Punch My ear a pleasing torture finds In tones the withered sibyl grinds,-- The dame sans merci's broken strain, Whom I erewhile, perchance, have known, When Orleans filled the Bourbon throne, A siren singing by the Seine.