Verses on fruit plates



Children of ye Garden We
Simple and of low Degree.
Such as chuse Us ere our Time
Suffer Paines unmeet for Rhyme
Such as eat Us overmuch
Suffer like ye other Such.
Purblind Race of toiling men
Lap Us round with Pye-Crust—then
Served with Sugar and with Cream
Ye shall find Us what we Seem.


Ye Garden's royal Pride am I.
A Queen of Beauty manifold,
Y-clad in Crimson dasht with Golde
And crowned by every Summer Skie.
Take ye my Largesse merrilie
Nor dread this Giving shall grow small.
Ye Trellis on ye Sun-warmed Wall
Hath hundreds not less Faire than I.


We be gamins of the Wood
Who claim the Bramble's brotherhood,
A feeble folk in russet dressed
Of all Earth's children littlest.
The brown Bear knows us where we hide
By river-bank or mountain-side—
The settler's baby, brown as he,
Espies where our battalions be
And  shameless  peddles at the mart
Red jewels warm from Nature's heart.


I sprawl in the sunshine & grow
(Ho! Ho!)
I am seen of the small boy afar
(Ha! Ha!)
At night he appropriates me
(Hee! Hee!)
He eats—and  is sure he will die
(Hi! Hi!)
And the Earth with its sorrow and  sin
Continues  to spin.


By Cause of Us was Eden lost
(Ye ancient Legend saith)
And Adam by ye Heavenly Post
Was driven forth to Death

Thys is our Sin (or Hers that pluckt)
Yet doe our Orchards make
Almost an Eden reconstruct
And guiltlesse of ye Snake.

For underneath ye laden Boughe
That fretts ye Summer Skie
 In more than Eden Idlenesse
Ye Citic Folk may lie.

And catche (in murmur of ye Bees)—
An Echoe of ye Town,
And marke from out ye Sleepie Trees
Fat Apples tumbling downe.


Wee have sett, sith Time began
Madnesse in ye Minde of Mann,
Soe that Hee shoulde sinke—alas!
Lower than ye Kine att Grasse.—
yet for all oure past Misdeede
Wee be of a noble Breede—
Emerald and Purple dyed,
Rome's delight and Gallia's Pride
An ye doubte our High Pretence
Eate of us in Innocence

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