The full grown fern is left alone
It is the young fronds that men seek,
The fiddleheads, so men them own,
As from the soil they first do peak.
Adult and youth will them persue And gather by the basketful
As soon as they come into view
The greens they count just wonderful.
Upon the banks of the St. John
Along her isles and intervals
The fiddlehead puts forth its frond.
Throwing aside its brown capped scales.
Dear to the local epicure
And much sought after in the Spring
Yet it is able to endure
And to the winds its small spores fling.
It is a strong and thrifty fern
That spreads its shade unchecked and free
It thus its right to live doth earn.
In spite of elm and older tree.