“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!”

  I took the train next morning,
  Some lumps my nose adorning,
    My forehead, sundry knobs,
  My ideas slightly wandering,
  But, as I went, much pondering
  Upon my night with Dobbs;
  Brown thinks it, dear old sinner,
  A case of “after dinner,”
    And won’t believe a word,
  Talks of “hallucination,”
  “Laws of association,”
    And calls my tale “absurd.”