Hasty Pudding

But man, more fickle, the bold license claims,

In different realms, to give thee different names.

_Thee_, the soft nations round the warm Levant

Polanta call; the French, of course, Polante.

E'en in thy native regions, how I blush

To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee _mush_!

All spurious appellations, void of truth;

I've better known thee from my earliest youth:

Thy name is _Hasty Pudding_! Thus our sires

Were wont to greet thee from the fuming fires;

And while they argued in thy just defence,

With logic clear, they thus explained the sense:

"In _haste_ the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze,

Receives and cooks the ready-powdered maize;

In haste 'tis served, and then in equal _haste_,

With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.

No carving to be done, no knife to grate

The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;

But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,

And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,

By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,

Performs the _hasty_ honors of the board."

Such is thy name, significant and clear,--

A name, a sound, to every Yankee dear;

But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste

Preserve my pure, hereditary taste.