I could not sleep, but, raising

       The window, stood, moon-gazing,

       In fairyland a guest;

       "On such a night," et cetera— See Shakespeare for much better a Description of the rest— I mused, how sweet to wander Beside the river, yonder; And then the sudden whim Seized my head to pillow On Hudson's sparkling billow, A midnight, moonlight swim! Soon thought and soon attempted; At once my room was emptied Of its sole occupant; The roof was low, and easily, In fact, quite Japanese-ily, I took the downward slant, Then, without stay or stopping, My first and last eaves-dropping, By leader-pipe I sped, And through the thicket gliding, Down the steep hillside sliding, Soon reached the river's bed. But what was my amazement— The fair scene from the casement, How changed! I could not guess Where track or rails had vanished, Town, villas, station, banished— All was a wilderness. Only one ancient gable, A low-roofed inn and stable, A creaking sign displayed, An antiquated wherry, Below it—"DOBBS HIS FERRY"— In the clear moonlight swayed. I turned, and there the craft was, Its shape 'twixt scow and raft was, Square ends, low sides, and flat, And standing close beside me, An ancient chap who eyed me, Beneath a steeple-hat; Short legs—long pipe—style very Pre-Revolutionary— I bow, he grimly bobs, Then, with some perturbation, By way of salutation, Says I, "How are you, Dobbs!" He grum and silent beckoned, And I, in half a second, Scarce knowing what I did, Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing Himself 'midships, and rowing, Swift through the stream we slid; He pulled awhile, then stopping, And both oars slowly dropping, His pipe aside he laid, Drew a long breath, and taking An attitude, and shaking His fist towards shore, thus said:— "Of all sharp cuts the keenest, Of all mean turns the meanest, Vilest of all vile jobs, Worse than the Cow-Boy pillagers, Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers A going back on Dobbs! 'Twould not be more anom'lous If Rome went back on Rom'lus (Old rum-un like myself), Or Hail Columbia, played out By Southern Dixie, laid out Columbus on the shelf! "They say 'Dobbs' ain't melodious, It's 'horrid,' 'vulgar,' 'odious,' In all their crops it sticks; And then the worse addendum Of 'Ferry' does offend 'em More than its vile prefix. Well, it does seem distressing, But, if I'm good at guessing, Each one of these same nobs, If there was money in it, Would ferry in a minute, And change his name to Dobbs! "That's it, they're not partic'lar, Respecting the auric'lar, At a stiff market rate; But Dobbs' especial vice is, That he keeps down the prices Of all their real estate! A name so unattractive Keeps villa-sites inactive, And spoils the broker's jobs; They think that speculation Would rage at 'Paulding's Station,' Which stagnates now at 'Dobbs.' "'Paulding's!"—that's sentimental! An old Dutch Continental, Bushwhacked up there a spell; But why he should come blustering Round here, and filibustering, Is more than I can tell; Sat playing for a wager, And nabbed a British major. Well, if the plans and charts From Andre's boots he hauled out, Is his name to be bawled out Forever, round these parts? "Guess not! His pay and bounty And mon'ment from the county Paid him off, every cent, While this snug town and station, To every generation, Shall be Dobbs' monument; Spite of all speculators And ancient-landmark traitors, Who, all along this shore, Are ever substitutin' The modern, highfalutin', For the plain names of yore. "Down there, on old Manhattan, Where land-sharks breed and fatten, They've wiped out Tubby Hook. That famous promontory, Renowned in song and story, Which time nor tempest shook, Whose name for aye had been good, Stands newly christened 'Inwood,' And branded with the shame Of some old rogue who passes By dint of aliases, Afraid of his own name! "See how they quite outrival, Plain barnyard Spuytenduyvil, By peacock Riverdale, Which thinks all else it conquers, And over homespun Yonkers Spreads out its flaunting tail! There's new-named Mount St. Vincent, Where each dear little inn'cent Is taught the Popish rites— Well, ain't it queer, wherever These saints possess the river They get the finest sites! "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