Were this a pulpit, I should doubtless preach; Were this a platform, I should gravely teach; But to no solemn duties I pretend In my vocation at the table's end, So as my answer let me tell instead What Landlord Porter--rest his soul--once said. A feast it was that none might scorn to share; Cambridge and Concord demigods were there-- And who were they? You know as well as I The stars long glittering in our Eastern sky-- The names that blazon our provincial scroll Ring round the world with Britain's drumbeat roll! Good was the dinner, better was the talk; Some whispered, devious was the homeward walk; The story came from some reporting spy-- They lie, those fellows--Oh, how they do lie! Not ours those foot tracks in the new fallen snow-- Poets and sages never zigzagged so! Now Landlord Porter, grave, concise, severe, Master, nay, monarch, in his proper sphere, Though to belles-lettres he pretended not, Lived close to Harvard, so knew what was what; And having bards, philosophers and such To eat his dinner, put the finest touch His art could teach, those learned mouths to fill With the best proofs of gustatory skill; And finding wisdom plenty at his board, Wit, science, learning, all his guests had stored, By way of contrast, ventured to produce, To please their palates, an inviting goose. Better it were the company should starve Than hands unskilled that goose attempt to carve; None but the master artist shall assail The bird that turns the mightiest surgeon pale. One voice arises from the banquet hall,-- The landlord answers to the pleading call; Of stature tall, sublime of port he stands, His blade and trident gleaming in his hands; Beneath his glance the strong-knit joints relax As the weak knees before the headsman's axe. And Landlord Porter lifts his glittering knife As some stout warrior armed for bloody strife; All eyes are on him; some in whispers ask-- What man is he who dares this dangerous task? When, lo! the triumph of consummate art, With scarce a touch the creature drops apart! As when the baby in his nurse's lap Spills on the carpet a dissected map. Then the calm sage, the monarch of the lyre, Critics and men of science all admire, And one whose wisdom I will not impeach, Lively, not churlish, somewhat free of speech, Speaks thus: "Say, master, what of worth is left In birds like this, of breast and legs bereft?" And Landlord Porter, with uplifted eyes, Smiles on the simple querist, and replies-- "When from a goose you've taken legs and breast, Wipe lips, thank God, and leave the poor the rest!"