The headlong stream that o’er the mill-dam breaks)
     Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
     So the vexed caldron rages, roars and boils. 
       First with clean salt she seasons well the food,
     Then strews the flour, and thickens well 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 crowned;
     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
     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 chilled earth lies buried deep in snow,
     And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow. 
       Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
     Great source of health, the only source of joy;
     Mother of Egypt’s god, but sure, for me,
     Were I to leave my God, I’d worship thee. 
     How oft thy teats these pious hands have pressed! 
     How oft thy bounties prove my only feast! 
     How oft I’ve fed thee with my favorite grain! 
     And roared, like thee, to see 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 further hints unfold,
     Good 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 due,
     So taught my sire, and what he taught is true. 
       There is a choice in spoons.  Though small appear
     The nice distinction, yet to me ’tis clear. 
     The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
     In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
     Performs not well in those substantial things,
     Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
     Where the strong labial muscles must embrace