Yet this for ever I will declare,
That the dish, however it may be scorned,
For a harvest supper is beef that's corned.
I love a dame of the good old sort,
The piano not her only forte,
Her sons, who something know beside
To break a pointer, drink, and ride;
And daughters, who return from school,
To feed the pullets, not dance la poule.
There are some that gather, who do not grow,