Classic Poem

'T is a pretty fair farm, that of ours in the West;
And the poultry they raise there, it equals the best;
These hens of the prairie, I never have seen
A civilized capon more plump or as clean.

'T is fine hunting-ground, the domain we possess,
Some thousand miles off, — sure it cannot be less;
For it took 'em three days, in the mire and the snow,
These birds to bring hither, — the rivers were low.

I have walked over England, and given a look
At all their great houses; but ne'er was a duke,
For all his French pedigree, all his fair crest,
That had such a park as our park in the West.

Gray bird of the wilderness! lucky for you
That you 'scaped the fell shaft of the wandering Sioux!
Then the savage had gorged you, half burnt and half raw,
And tossed your sweet bones a bonne bouche to his squaw.

But now you shall grace an Athenian board,
And sparkling libations to you shall be poured;
If Iowa send game and Ohio send wine,
And Cambridge good company, — may we not dine?

What have they at Windsor we cannot have here?
If we 've no royal names, yet we 'll have royal cheer:
This only is wanting, — that he were my guest
Whose friendship supplies me with birds from the West.