The New York Journal, And Daily Patriotic Register

POET'S CORNER.

Happening to meet with the following poem in an odd collection, I thought it worthy (if you please, Mr. Printer) of a place in your Weekly Register: by inserting it, you will oblige your friend, &c.

AMINADAB.

THE WOODEN SPOON.

Filia sylvae nobilis.--Hor.

Since Jenny sings the pudding's every taste,
In lines responsive to the lumpish theme;
Why may not I my rustic lay adorn
With praise of wooden spoon? whether of box,
Brazil, mahogany, or other plant
Of Indian title proud, or humbler ash,
Or dunghill-shaping sycamore, thy frame--
Hail lignum vitae! whose capacious mouth,
Replete with pudding dripping from the roast
(A feast peculiar to the Yorkshire swain)
Or soup of pease, of gruel, or fat broth.
Produc'd from neck of mutton, greets my taste
With titillating joy. Tho' Nell may boast
Her spoon of pewter glares with brighter ray;
Or Peer exulting shew Potosi's pride;
Yet, throat-regaling spoon, I hail thee still;
Still praise thy virtues, and apply thine aid
Benignant, to repel the various qualms,
Which Hunger, ill-devouring monster! breeds
On fainting lungs. The tailor, tho' he moulds
The spoon of lead obedient to his will,
Or makes of pewter, heavenly bright its form,
Or copper blazing like the sun; yet he
(Conscious of their interior excellence)
To brace the nerves relax'd by daily toil,
To drive fell hunger from his weary breast,
Demands thy aid alone--Oft as from plough,
Or fold, or barn, returning, Colin sees
Thee, all immers'd in the full steaming mess,
He grins with pleasure--sympathizing teeth,
And lips, and gullet, wait the known alarm.
Lo! now voracious his extended jaws
Wide op'ning make thee way--and now they clat--
Yet hail once more! Hail to thy safe return,
From that deep, swallowing maw. Not more delights
The ladle floating in the spacious bowl
Of punch ambrosial, bane of human care!
Or measuring out to the half-meeting lips
The smiling bumper, endless fount of joy!
Whose virtues I revere, as next to thee
In kind or use. But vain would be the strife
To give thy merits all their praises due:
So I, reluctant, leave the copious theme
To bards of better taste.

(Signed)
SAMUEL SIPPLEWELL.

* This appears to be a parody on a poem on Pudding by Jemmy Copywell, which I have not had the good fortune to meet with.