Their sweet young fragrance o'er such aged tree! How vain to say, that, when short youth has fled, Our dearest of enjoyments cease to be; When hoary eld is loved but the more tenderly.
And there the manly farmers scan the news; (Strong is their sense, though plain the garb it wears;) Or, while their pipes a lulling smoke diffuse, They look important from their elbow-chairs, And gravely ponder on the nation's cares. The matrons of the morning sermon speak, And each its passing excellence declares; While tears of pious rapture, pure and meek, Course in soft beauty down the Christian mother's cheek.
Then, just at one, the full thanksgiving feast, Rich with the bounties of the closing year, Is spread; and, from the greatest to the least, All crowd the table, and enjoy the cheer. The list of dainties will not now appear; Save one I cannot pass unheeded by, One dish, already to the muses dear, One dish, that wakens memory's longing sigh,— The genuine, far-famed, Yankee pumpkin pie!
Who e'er has seen thee in thy flaky crust Display the yellow richness of thy breast, But, as the sight awoke his keenest gust, Has own'd thee, of all cates the choicest, best? Ambrosia were a fool, to thee compared, E'en by the ruby hand of Hebe drest; Thee, pumpkin pie, by country maids prepared, With their white rounded arms above the elbow bared.
Now to the kitchen come a vagrant train, The plenteous fragments of the feast to share. The old lame fiddler wakes a merry strain, For his mull'd cider and his pleasant fare,