A pleasant breadth of open space
In wastes of stone, a breathing-place
For dusty toil, though ages roll
Unchanged it spreads a verdant scroll
Whereon is writ, for knowing eyes,
The legend of a city's rise.
Rule prince or people, king or queen,
Still Bowling Green is Bowling Green.

For here, before the Dutchman came,
The Red Man lit his council-flame
To plan the hunt or ambuscade;
And here his dark-eyed children played.
Where now De Peyster's image stands
The simple sachems gave their lands
For trinkets — easy victims fit
For such as crafty Minuit.

Next rose Kryn Frederyck's bastioned fort.
Before the northward sally-port
The soldiers drilled — a gallant breed
Of men that held the Yankee, Swede,
And Weckquaesgeek in high disdain.
Upon this level, then " The Plaine, "
Van Twiller broached the foaming keg,
Stout Peter stumped on timber leg.

Here drovers sold the flock's increase;
The sullen savage sued for peace;
The young folk came, with dances gay
And garlands, bringing in the May,
While elders nodded, sage and bland,
And lovers rambled hand in hand —
Till English guns in churlish rage
Knelled out our city's Golden Age.

Then, richly turfed and weeded clean,
The gentry laid the level green,
Alluring sport-delighting souls
To cast the jack and hurl the bowls.
And here, as loyal hearts decreed,
King George bestrode a leaden steed,
Till hot rebellion spurned the Crown
And horse and king went crashing down.

Thrice welcome, Peace! The British drum
Hath beat retreat; and see! they come!
With heads erect and muskets true
The tattered troops in buff and blue —
The men that crossed the Delaware
And trapped the Hessian in his lair —
The men of York, of Monmouth plain,
Who marched with Greene, who charged with Wayne,

Who fought the war of seven years,
Who whipped the Redcoat Grenadiers —
With swinging stride come marching in,
And all the air is wild with din;
While, strong of limb and stout of soul,
Van Arsdale climbs the well-greased pole
And wrenches down the crimson rag
And sets on high the starry flag!

This bit of turf that woos the sun
The stately step of Washington
Hath pressed; and Fulton knew it well;
And Irving loved its hallowed spell.
It knows the visions, strifes, and tears
And joys of thrice a hundred years.
Unchanged amid a changing scene,
The city's heart is Bowling Green.