He that hath bent him o’er a goose,
When the first slice of breast is loose—
The first prime slice for tenderness,
The last for grateful savouriness;
(Before the glutton’s eager fingers
Have swept the dish where gravy lingers)
And mark’d the brown inviting air,
The harvest of fine cuts that’s there,
The firm yet greasy lumps that deck
The roundness of its luscious neck.