To a Goose

If thou didst feed on western plains of yore ;
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gypsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;
If thy gray quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race.
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,
Wailing the rigour of his lady fair ;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil.
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,
Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that we pronounced thee fine,
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine.