HASTY-PUDDING. 



But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste 

 Preserve my pure hereditary taste. 



There are who strive to stamp with disrepute 

 The luscious food, because it feeds the brute ; 

 In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs 

 Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs ; 

 With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, 

 Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast. 

 What tho' the gen'rous cow gives me to quaff 

 The milk nutritious ; am I then a calf ? 

 Or can the genius of the noisy swine, 

 Tfyo' nursed on pudding, thence lay claim to mine? 

 Sure the sweet song, I fashion to thy praise, 

 Runs more melodious than the notes they raise. 



My song resounding in its grateful glee, 

 No merit claims ; I praise myself in the*. 

 My father lov'd thee thro' his length of days ! 

 For thee his fields were shaded o'er with maize ; 

 From thee what health, what vigour he possess'd, 

 Ten sturdy freemen sprung from him attest ; 

 Thy constellation rul'd my natal morn, 

 And all my bones were made of Indian corn. 

 Delicious grain ! whatever form it take, 

 To roast or boil, to smother or to bake, 

 In every dish 'tis welcome still to me, 

 But most, my Hasty-Pudding, most in thee. 



Let the green succotash with thee contend, 

 Let beans and corn their sweetest juices blend, 

 Let butter drench them in its yellow tide, 

 And a long slice of bacon grace their side ; 

 Not all the plate, how fam'd soe'er it be, 

 Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. 



Some talk of Hoe-cake, fair Virginia's pride, 

 Rich Johnny-cake this mouth has often try'd ; 

 Both please me well, their virtues much the same ; 

 Alike their fabric as allied their fame, 

 Except in dear New England, where the last 

 Receives a dash of pumpkin in the paste, 

 To give it sweetness and improve the taste. 

 But place them all before me, smoking hot, 

 The big round dumpling rolling from the pot ; 



