Classic Poem

I' VE jolliest merriment for Saturday: —
The very choicest of all hawks to fly
That crane or heron could be stricken by,
As up and down you course the steep highway
So shall the wild geese, in your deadly play,
Lose at each stroke a wing, a tail, a thigh;
And man with man and horse with horse shall vie,
Till you all shout for glory and holiday.
Then, going home, you'll closely charge the cook:
" All this is for to-morrow's roast and stew.
Skin, lop, and truss: hang pots on every hook.
And we must have fine wine and white bread too,
Because this time we mean to feast: so look
We do not think your kitchens lost on you."