This Song That I Sing-- It Is Not Of A Spring, Nor Yet Of A Silvery Stream-- But Of A Vision Bright Which Came Last Night In The Garb Of A Blissful Dream-- When I Thought, As I Lay, It Was Thanksgiving Day, And I Was Invited To Dine Where A Table Stood On Which Everything Good Spread A Feast That Was Almost Divine! Where The Savors Arose, Right Under My Nose, From Turkey--And Pumpkin Pies; And From Jolly Roast Pig Were Slices As Big As Some Of The Campaign Lies! And Celery So White 'Twas A Thing Of Delight To Bite The Crisp Stalks In Two. And The Cranberry Sauce-- Oh, I Tell You 'Twas Boss-- And Flanked By An Oyster Stew! Where The Bread And The Cake-- The Best They Can Bake-- Were Cut Into Slices Heroic. And The Amber Ice Cream Melted Into My Dream Like Love To The Heart Of A 'Poet'; And They Heaped Up My Plate, And I Sat There And Ate Till I Awoke With A Yell, And A Shiver And Shake And A Pain And An Ache That Rudely My Dream Did Dispel! But Dreams, As You Know, By Contraries Go, And Thus I Fear If It Will Be With The One Of Delight That Came Last Night When I Feasted So Heartily; And Thanksgiving Day In The Usual Way Will Come To Me, Don't You See, And The Dinner I Had And The Ache That Was Bad Prove A----Barren "Idealty"!