And muskets banged, as if avowedly
On Stuyvesant's errand proudly!

"Die, traitor; fleér! though thou 'scape
Our ambush on thy devil's racer,
Caught here upon this marshy cape,
Thy bones the muskrat's brood shall scrape,
The sturgeon suck--Death thy embracer!"
So shouts each sanguine chaser.

To die in sight of Amstel's walls,
And gallant Joost to die beside him?--
O foolish blast, such fate that calls!
O river that the heart appalls!
Dear Joost may live. And _they_ bestride him?
"By hell! none else shall ride him!

"My steed, thy limbs like mine are sore!
Few years are left us ere the billows
Roll over both. Come but once more,
And to the bottom or the shore,
Bear me and thee to happy pillows,
Or 'neath the water willows!"

He strokes old Joost. He bends him low.
He winds his horn and laughs derision.
One spring!--they've cleared the bog and sloe,
And down the ebb tide buoyant go--
That stately tide. So like a vision
Of home, to Norse and Frisian,