To a goose

If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;

Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet

Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;

Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat

From gypsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;

If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace

Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,

Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,

Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;

Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,

Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,

Departed Goose! I neither know nor care,

But this I know, that we pronounced thee fine,

Seasoned with sage sand onions, and port wine.