If thou didst feed on western plains of yore Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor, Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat From gipsy thieves and foxes sly and fleet; If thy grey quills by lawyer guided, trace Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race, Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet, Wailing the rigour of some lady fair; Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil, Cobwebs and dust thy pinion white besoil, Departed goose! I neither know nor care. But this I know, that thou wert very fine, Seasoned with sage and onions and port wine.