40 In boiling water stir the yellow flour: The yellow flour, bestrew'd and stirr'd with haste, Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste, Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, And the whole mass its true consistence takes. Could but her sacred name, unknown so long, Rise, like her labors, to the son of song, To her, to them, I'd consecrate my lays, And blow her pudding with the breath of praise. If 'twas Oella whom I sang before 50 I here ascribe her one great virtue more. Not through the rich Peruvian realms 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 famed soe'er it be, Can please my palate like a bowl of thee. Some talk of Hoe-Cake, fair Virginia's pride, 141 Rich Johnny-Cake, this mouth has often tried; 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, The pudding of the bag, whose quivering To feed the household as their portions cool And send them all to labor or to school. Yet may the simplest dish some rules impart, For nature scorns not all the aids of art. Or want of skill, or want of care presides. A little ashes, sprinkled round the spire, Soon steep'd in rain, will bid the worm retire; The feather'd robber with his hungry maw Swift flies the field before your man of straw, A frightful image, such as school-boys bring, When met to burn the pope or hang the king. Thrice in the season, through each verdant row 210 Wield the strong ploughshare and the faithful hoe: The faithful hoe, a double task that takes, To till the summer corn, and roast the winter cakes. Slow springs the blade, while check'd by chilling rains, Ere yet the sun the seat of Cancer gains; But when his fiercest fires emblaze the land, Then start the juices, then the roots expand; Then, like a column of Corinthian mould, The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold; The busy branches all the ridges fill, 220 Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill. Here cease to vex them, all your cares are done: Leave the last labors to the parent sun; Beneath his genial smiles, the well-drest field, When autumn calls, a plenteous crop shall yield. Now the strong foliage bears the standards high, And shoots the tall top-gallants to the sky; The suckling ears their silky fringes bend, And pregnant grown, their swelling coats distend; The loaded stalk, while still the burthen grows, 230 O'erhangs the space that runs between the rows; The fire flames high; and, as a pool (that takes The headlong stream that o'er the milldam breaks) Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils, 300 So the vex'd caldron rages, roars and boils. First with clean salt, she seasons well the food, Then strews the flour, and thickens all the flood, Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand; To stir it well demands a stronger hand; The husband takes his turn: and round and round The ladle flies; at last the toil is crown'd; When to the board the thronging huskers pour, And take their seats as at the corn before. I leave them to their feast. There still belong 310 More useful matters to my faithful song. For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet, Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate. Some with molasses grace the luscious treat, And mix, like bards, the useful and 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 dries the shivering |