grees two glasses of brandy, one
wine, one rose-water, citron, nutmeg, and cinnamon; beat it all
extremely well together, tie it in a floured cloth very tight, let it
boil four hours constantly; let your sauce be a quarter pound of butter,
beat to a cream, a quarter pound loaf sugar pounded and sifted; beat in
the butter with a little wine and sugar and nutmeg.

COCOANUT PUDDING.

Whatever was the _best pie_ going,
In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.
MOORE.

Take the thin brown skin off of a quarter pound of cocoa, wash it in
cold water, and wipe it dry; grate it fine, stir three and half ounces
of butter and a quarter pound of powdered sugar, to a cream; add half
teaspoonful of rose-water, half glass of wine and of brandy mixed, to
them. Beat the white of six eggs till they stand alone, and then stir
them into the butter and sugar; afterwards sprinkle in the grated nut,
and stir hard all the time. Put puff paste into the bottom of the dish,
pour in the mixture, and bake it in a moderate oven, half an hour. Grate
loaf sugar over it when cold.

APPLE PUDDING.

Where London's column, pointing to the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies,
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain, good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth,
His word would pass for more than he was worth;
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
And _apple pudding_ solemnized the Lord's.
POPE.

Make a batter of two eggs, a pint of milk and three or four spoonfuls
of flour; pour it into a deep dish, and having pared six or eight
apples, place them whole in the batter, and bake them.

HASTY PUDDING.

But man, more fickle, the bold license claims,
In different realms, to give thee different names.
_Thee_, the soft nations round the warm Levant
Polanta call; the French, of course, Polante.
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee _mush_!
All spurious appellations, void of truth;
I've better known thee from my earliest youth:
Thy name is _Hasty Pudding_! Thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee from the fuming fires;
And while they argued in thy just defence,
With logic clear, they thus explained the sense:
"In _haste_ the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the ready-powdered maize;
In haste 'tis