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.