HASTY-PUDDING. li 



I leave them to their feast. There still belong 

 More copious matters to my faithful song. 

 For rules there are, tho' ne'er unfolded yet, 

 Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. 



Some with molasses line the luscious treat, 

 And mix, like bards, the useful with the sweet. 

 A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise, 

 A great resource in those bleak wintry days, 

 When the chill'd earth lies buried deep in snow, 

 And raging Boreas drives the shiv'ring cow. 



Blest cow ! thy praise shall still my notes employ, 

 Great source of health, the only source of joy ; 

 How oft thy teats these pious hands have press'd ! 

 How oft thy bounties prove my only feast ! 

 How oft I've fed thee with my fav'rite grain ! 

 And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain ! 



Ye swains who know her various worth to prize, 

 Ah ! house her well from winter's angry skies. 

 Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, 

 Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer ; 

 When spring returns she'll well acquit the loan, 

 And nurse at once your infants and her own. 



Milk, then, with pudding, I should always choose ; 

 To this in future I confine my Muse, 

 Till she in haste some future hints unfold, 

 Well for the young, nor useless to the old. 

 First in your bowl the milk abundant take, 

 Then drop with care along the silver lake 

 Your flakes of pudding ; these at first will hide 

 Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide ; 

 But when their growing mass no more can sink ; 

 When the soft island looms above the brink, 

 Then check your hand ; you've got the portion's due, 

 So taught our sires and what they taught is true. 



There is a choice in spoons. Tho' small appear 

 The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear, 

 The deep bowl'd Gallic spoon, contriv'd to scoop 

 In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, 

 Performs not well in those substantial things, 

 Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings ; 



