 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
OUR CHRISTMAS TURKEY.
Sit down at the table, good comrade of mine;
Here is cheer, and some flasks of the vintage of Rhine;
Here is warmth, here is comfort, and smiles that betray
But a part of the welcome that greets you to-day;
And here in the centre, enthroned on a plate,
Superb in surroundings and royal in state,
You behold (why, what cynic could give him a scowl?),
With his cranberry courtiers, our national fowl.
Here is cheer, and some flasks of the vintage of Rhine;
Here is warmth, here is comfort, and smiles that betray
But a part of the welcome that greets you to-day;
And here in the centre, enthroned on a plate,
Superb in surroundings and royal in state,
You behold (why, what cynic could give him a scowl?),
With his cranberry courtiers, our national fowl.
Folk call him a Turkey—the name is absurd;
This fowl is a purely American bird.
His strut and his gobble, his arrogant air,
His plumage of bronze, speak my countryman there.
But no! he's a coward—ah! well, that depends!
He can fight for his hen and his chicks and his friends;
And in one thing he shows an American soul,
You never can force him to crawl through a hole.
This fowl is a purely American bird.
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His plumage of bronze, speak my countryman there.
But no! he's a coward—ah! well, that depends!
He can fight for his hen and his chicks and his friends;
And in one thing he shows an American soul,
You never can force him to crawl through a hole.
There's an edge to the carving-knife polished and bright;
The plates are all warm and the napkins all white;
Before us the celery gleams through its vase,
And the cranberry-jelly is set in its place.
Thrust the sharp fork astraddle our beauty's breastbone;
From his side cut thin slices, the whitest e'er known,
For the ladies, God bless them! but my ruder sense
Takes the thigh, and the last part that gets o'er the fence.
The plates are all warm and the napkins all white;
Before us the celery gleams through its vase,
And the cranberry-jelly is set in its place.
Thrust the sharp fork astraddle our beauty's breastbone;
From his side cut thin slices, the whitest e'er known,
For the ladies, God bless them! but my ruder sense
Takes the thigh, and the last part that gets o'er the fence.
Ah! white meat or brown meat, it matters not much;
'Tis taste we must please, not our seeing nor touch;
And with either for dinner we're not at a loss,
If we've celery in plenty and cranberry-sauce;
For, then, with a flask of good Rudesheimer wine,
We can manage, I fancy, in comfort to dine.
Nay, more; with a turkey like this at command,
Who'd not be a patriot, proud of his land?
'Tis taste we must please, not our seeing nor touch;
And with either for dinner we're not at a loss,
If we've celery in plenty and cranberry-sauce;
For, then, with a flask of good Rudesheimer wine,
We can manage, I fancy, in comfort to dine.
Nay, more; with a turkey like this at command,
Who'd not be a patriot, proud of his land?
They had figs in Judea, and fatlings so fine,
Young kids dressed with olives, and what they called wine;
They had palm-trees and date-trees, and odors as rare
As the sweetest of roses could fling on the air.
What their fruits and their flowers to these cranberries red,
And their palm and their date trees this celery instead?
While as for their kids and their lambs and their quails,
One turkey—let's eat, for comparison fails.
Young kids dressed with olives, and what they called wine;
They had palm-trees and date-trees, and odors as rare
As the sweetest of roses could fling on the air.
What their fruits and their flowers to these cranberries red,
And their palm and their date trees this celery instead?
While as for their kids and their lambs and their quails,
One turkey—let's eat, for comparison fails.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |