Sprouting out of the ground is seen,
A rare old plant is the cabbage green.
Fast he sprouts, for he’s food for kings,
And a nice white heart has he;
How close he sticks and how tight he clings
To the stump, till he’s quite stumpy;
In a waggon he’s jolted along the town,
And his leaves no longer waves,
For he’s pack’d like a conwict, and quite done brown,
As his way to Common Garden he paves.