" Mr. Borrowall wishes you would be kind enough to lend him your paper for one minute. There is something particular in it, that he wants to see; he'll send it back before you want to read it."
The Pot of Baked Beans.
O ! how my heart sighs for my own native land,
Where potatoes and squashes and cucumbers grow; Where cheer and good welcome are always at hand, And custards and pumpkin pies smoke in a row; Where pudding the visage of hunger serenes, And what is far dearer, the pot of bak'd beans.
Let Maryland boast of her dainties profuse,
And large water-melons, and cantelopes fine ; Her turtle and oysters, and terrapin stews,
And soft crab high zested with brandy and wine; Ah ! neither my heart from my native land weans; Where smokes on the table the pot of bak'd beans.
The pot of bak'd beans ! with what pleasure I saw it,
Well season'd, well pork'd by some rosy fac'd dame; And when from the glowing hot oven she'd draw it, Well crisp'd and well brown'd to the table it came; O, give me my country, the land of my teens,— Of the dark Indian pudding, and pot of bak'd beans.
The pot of bak'd beans ! Ah, the muse is too frail,
Its taste to descant on, its virtues to tell; But look at the sons of New-England so hale,
And her daughters so rosy — 'twill teach thee full well; Like me it will teach thee to sigh for the means Of health, and of rapture ! — the pot of bak'd beans.