BY A VERMONTER.
Let some folks boast of spicy mince,
Care not a fig for such do I;
Or largely talk of sweetened quince,
Fine as the luscious grape of Lintz,
Plumbs doubly dipped in Syrian dye —
I deem them tasteless all as flints,
Compared with one good pumpkin pie.
I know our pumpkins do not claim
The honored growth of foreign soil;
They never felt the torid flame,
And surely they are not to blame,
Though reared not by the bondsman’s toil,
In clime where man, to burden tame.
Unpaid, consents to tug and broil.
Talk not of vineyards breaking down,
And fields that droop with oil and wine;
Where burning suns with ripeners crown
The sweets that man’s best manhood drown,
By lying poets sworn divine.
I rather have than all — don’t frown —
The product of my pumpkin vine.
See, on you melon covered height,
My chosen fruit, like globes of gold,
Lies ripening in the sunbeam light,
Ah, ’tis a stomach staying sight.
And soon to house them from the cold,
Shall freemen with strong hands unite.
Paid laborers and freemen bold.
And then the girls who make our pies,
Bless them! all other maids outshine.
Their raven locks, and hazel eyes,
And cheeks, whose ever changing dyes
The lily and the rose combine,
Make mad the hearts that love the prize
Of all this loveliness divine.
Vermont! thou art a glorious state,
Though small in acres and in skies,
But ’tis not length that makes one great,
Nor breadth that gives a nation size.
Thy mountains ane thy mountain air,
Have reared a noble race of men,
And women, fairest of the fair,
Their labors and their love to share.
Where shall we see thy like again?
I love thee all, which most, I shan’t advise
Thy mountains, maidens, or thy pumpkin pies.
Watertoown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Jan 14, 1852