THE FIRST MESS OF GREENS

You may boast of landscapes golden

With the harvest's ripenin’ grain,

Or of Autumn pensive foldin,

All her flowers to sleep again;

But to me the woods a-ringin’

With the notes of happy birds

When the April buds is springin’

Is a song too sweet for words:

And the beautifullest, since you ask it,

In art or nature's scenes,

Is Kate with knife and basket,

A-getherin’ of greens.

It pears to lift the veil of years

And opens up to view,

A scene that brings me soothin’ tears

As sweet as tender dew

To grass that suns have withered dry:

I can see her jist as plain,

Though Father Time has dimmed my eye,

And ricollect the pain,

I suffered while she paused a-thinkin’

What such an answer means;

And the “Stay and help us, John,” a-winkin’

“Eat our first mess of greens.”

I've heard my neighbor Johnson say

His choice was chicken pie;

And Perkins lows he likes to stay

His stomach with a fry:

And Jones, he says, says he, “I think

Good old Kentucky rye

Suits me the best; give me a drink,

Whenever I am dry.”

But I have never tasted meat,

Nor cabbage, corn nor beans,

Nor fluid food one half as sweet

As that first mess of greens.

It's not the pictur’ near as much

As the thoughts that gethers round,

That always gives the paintin’ such

Distinction and renown.

There's nothin’ in a grassy knoll

So beautiful to see,

And yit I think within my soul

It beats a flowery lea.

And oh, I'd git Munkasket,

If I only had the means,

To paint me Kate with basket

A-getherin’ of greens.