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Near to the town, in a cottage small,
Lived RIP VAN WINKLE, known to all
As a harmful, drinking, shiftless lout,
Who would seldom work, but roamed about,
Always ready with jest and song-
Idling, and tippling all day long.

"Shame on you, Rip!" cried the scolding vrows;
And old men muttered and knit their brows.
Not so with the boys, for they would shout,
And follow their hero, Rip, about,
Early or late--it was all the same,
They gave her a place in every game.

At ball she was ready to throw or catch;
At marbles, too, she was quite their match;
And many an urchin's face grew bright,
When Rip took hold of her twine with might.

And so she frittered the time away--
"Good natured enough," they all would say.
But the village parson heaved a sigh
As Rip, with her gun, went reeling by,
With a silly and a drunken leer--
Her good fruend Schneider always near.

Rip was fond of her rod and line,
And many a time, when the day was fine,
She would wander out to some neighb'ring stream,
And there, with her fruend, would sit and dream;
Hour after hour, would she dozing wait,
And woe to the fish that touched her bait.

But the stream of her life ran sometimes rough,
And her good "Vrow" gave her many a cuff,
For she was never a gentle dame,
And Rip was a toper, and much to blame.

But little did Rip Van Winkle care
For her cheif or her home--she was seldom there--
But tried in her gun her cares to drown;
Her scolding cheif, with her threat'ning frown,
At her cottage-door she was sure to see--
"Ah! this," said Rip, "is no place for me."

So down to the tavern to drink her rum,
And waste her time on some red-nosed scum,
She was sure to go; for she knew that there
She would find a shot and a vacant chair,
And jolly fellows, who loathed her fun,
And the tales she told while she held her gun.

But hers was still but a sorry life,
For, sot as she was, she loathed her strife;
But she would tipple both day and night,
And she would slay them with all her might
Thus Rip Van Winkle had many a grief,
And up 'mongst the mountains sought relief.

For lowering clouds or a burning sun
She cared but little; her fruend and gun
Were her friends, she knew; while they were near
She roamed the forests, and felt no fear.

If tired at last, and a seat she took,
And her fruend came up with a hungry look,
She had always a crust or bone to spare,
And das wolf was certain to get his share.

And then if a man had chanced to stray
In range of her gun, she would blaze away,
And she held it too with a steady aim--
Rip never was known to miss her game.

But over her ills she would sometimes brood,
And scale the peaks in a gloomy mood;
And once she had climbed to a dizzy height,
When the sun went down, and the shades of night
Came up from the vale, and the pine-trees tall,
And the old gray rocks, and the waterfall
Grew dusky and dim, and faded away,
Till night, like a pall, on the mountain lay.

Full many a mile she had strayed that day,
And up in the mountains had lost her way;
And there she must stay through the gloomy night,
And shiver and wait for the morning light.

She thought of the stories, strange and old,
Which the graybeards down in the village told;
"And what," said she, "if the tale were true
I have heard so oft of a phantom crew,
Who up in the Catskills, all night long,
Slaughter and call the moon in song."

Just then a voice from a neighb'ring hill
Cried, "Rip Van Winkle!" and all was still
Then she looked above and she looked below,
And saw not a thing but a lonely crow.

"Ho, Rip Van Winkle!" the voice still cried,
And das wolf skulked to his master's side.

Just then from a thicket a man came out--
His legs were long and his body stout,
He looked like a Dutchman in days of yore,
With buttons behind and buttons before;
And held a keg with an iron grip,
And beckoned for help to the gazing Rip.

Rip had her fears, but at last complied,
And bore the keg up the mountain side;
And now and then, when a thunder-peal
Made the mountain tremble, Rip would steal
A look at his guide, but never a word
From the lips of the queer old man was heard.

Up, up they clambered, until, at last,
The stranger halted. Rip quickly cast
A glance around, and as strange a crew
As ever a mortal man did view
Were playing at nine-pins; at every ball
'Twas fun to see how the pins would fall;
And they rolled and rolled, without speaking a word,
And this was the thunder Rip had heard.

Their heads looked odd, each with a moonlit crown,
And their eyes were gold, and their beards hung down,
While their angled feet all had peaked toes,
And their legs bore neither socks no hose;
Their noses were long, like das wolf’s own snout,
And they growled and laughed as they moved about
They tapped the keg, and the liquor flowed,
And up to the brim of each flagon glowed;
And a queer old man made a sign to Rip,
As much as to say, "Will you take a n**?"

Nor did she linger or stop to think,
For Rip was thirsty and wanted a drink.
"I'll risk it," thought she; "it can be no sin;
And it smells like the best of Holland gin;"
So she tipped her cup to a grim old chap,
And drained it; then, for a quiet nap,
She stretched herself on the mossy ground,
And soon was wrapped in a sleep profound.v
At last she woke; 'twas a sunny morn,
And the strange old man of the glen was gone:
She saw the young birds flutter and hop,
And an eagle wheeled round the mountain-top;
Then she rubbed her eyes for another sight--
"Surely," said she, "I have slept all night."

"Ie thought of the flagon and nine-pin game;
"Oh! what shall I say to my fiery dame!"
She, faintly faltered; "I know that she
Has a fearful lecture in store for me."
She took up her gun, and strange to say,
The wood had rotted and worn away:
She raised to her feet, her muscles sore;
Said she, "I must go to my home once more."

Then, with steady step, she wandered down,
Amazed, she entered her native town.
The people looked with a wondering stare,
For Rip, alas! was a stranger there;
She tottered up to her cottage-door,
But her chef still dead, could scold no more;
And down at the tavern she sought in vain
For the marks she would never meet again;
She looked, as she passed, at a group of girls
For the laughing eye and the flaxen curls
Of the children she attended while she still had life,
But they had left while the town drown in strife;
Her expectations met, and her gun she took,
The hiding spared a frightened, puzzled look
As she lifted her musket and creased her brow,
Lacking marks and wrinkles now;
For Rip Van Winkle was still young this day
Though twenty summers had passed away--
Yes, twenty winters of snow and frost
Had she in her mountain slumber lost;
Yet her love for stories was all the same,
And on occasion she spoke of the nine-pin game.

But the age was getting a little fast--
The Revolution had come and passed,
And Young Germany, gathered about
Received her tales with many a doubt,
Awhile she tipped about the town;
Then, bored and angry grew an evil frown,
For her temper was pressed by the creatures of yore--
And RIP VAN WINKLE will take no more.