Edwardsville Spectator

POETRY.

From the Western Sun,

CONNECTICUT.

What land is that, so nicely bound
By Massachusetts and the Sound,
Rhode-Island and New-York around:
Where Yankees thick as hops are found:
And hasty puddings do abound?

Connecticut.

What land is that, when George the King
Did o'er the sea his fetters fling.
And think to link us in their ring,
Which gave the cry "there's no such thing."
Whose sons did Yankee Doodle sing?

Connecticut.

What land is that, where folks are said
To be so scrupulously bred,
To be so steady habited;
Where hearty girls and boys are fed,
With pumpkin pies and gingerbread?

Connecticut.

What land is that, where old time walks
In steady pace o'er maple blocks;
Forsakes his glass for wooden clocks;
Where heads too high will meet with knocks
And land were more if fewer rocks?

Connecticut.

What land is that, where onions grow;
Where maiden's necks are white as snow.
And cheeks like roses red you know;
Where johnny-cakes are baked from dough;
That land where milk and honey flow?

Connecticut.

What land is that, whence pedlars come
A thousand miles or more from home.
With tin, with bass-wood trenchers; some
With patent nutmegs and new rum;
To gather up the coppers!—hum!

Connecticut.

What land is that, where parsons live,
Where men hear Gospel and believe;
Where humble sinners seek reprieve;
Where women stay at home and weave,
Nor gad without their husbands' leave?

Connecticut.

What land is that, where I can trace,
My nineteenth cousin by his face;
Where once I fish'd for little dace,
And never learn'd the deuce from ace;
Where grand-mother this night says grace?

Connecticut.

What land is that, when we behold.
And all its history unfold.
And all about the land is told,
We like most things, but some we scold?
Ah! gentle reader, that is old

Connecticut.