There are no bowls on Bowling Green
     No maids in Maiden lane;
The river path to Greenwich
     No longer doth remain.
No longer in the Bowerie
Stands Peter Stuyvesant his tree!

And yet the Dutchmen built their dorp
     With sturdy wit and will,
In Nassau street their spectral feet
     Are heard to echo still.
In many places sure I am
New York is still Nieuw Amsterdam.

Sometimes at night in Bowling Green
     There comes a rumbling sound,
Which literal minds are wont to think
     The Subway. But I found
That still the Dutchman ease their souls
By playing ghostly games of bowls!