What art thou but a golden star,
A priceless gem amongst the flowers?

Alas, all earthly things must die,
Thou, too, fair yellow flower must fade,
Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye,
Upon the breast of some fair maid!

Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate,
Unlike the lily or the rose,
Thou passest to a higher state
When in sad death thy petals close:

For then thine outward form, grown pale
Is changed to what, at first scarce seen,
Is still thyself, so fair, so frail,
A little fruit of tender green!

When quite matured, how very choice
Thy juicy flavour; who can then
Sing all thy worth with mortal voice,
Or write thy praise with mortal pen.

There, take it gently from the ground,
O costermonger, to thy barrow,
And shout, with loud discordant sound,
The praise of Vegetable Marrow!

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