  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: 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. |
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