Classic Poem

I hate to sing your hackney'd birds —
So, doves and swans, a truce!
Your nests have been too often stirred;
My hero shall be — in a word —
A goose!

The nightingale, or else " bulbul, "
By Tommy Moore let loose,
Is grown intolerably dull —
I from the the feathered nation cull
A goose!

Can roasted Philomer a liver
Fit for a pie produce?
Fat pies that on the home's sweet river
Fair Strasburg bakes. Pray who's the giver?
A goose!

An ortolan is good to eat,
A partridge is of use;
But they are scarce — whereas you meet
At Paris, ay, in every street,
A goose!

When tired of war the Greeks became,
They pitched Troy to the deuce,
Ulysses, then, was not to blame
For teaching them the noble " game
Of goose! "

May Jupiter and Buonaparte,
Of thunder less profuse,
Suffer their eagles to depart,
Encourage peace, and take to heart
A goose!