  Down in the orchard, down in the orchard, Under the gold-apple tree, One little maid and two little maids Frolic, merry and free. Brown as a berry, red as a rose, Sweeter maidens nobody knows. "What are you doing, Marjorie? Marjorie, tell to me?" Up she lifted her curly head, (Oh, but her cheeks were rosy-red!) Shaking her curls right saucily, "I'm gathering apples!" said she, said she, "I'm gathering apples!" said she. Down in the orchard, down in the orchard, Under the gold-apple tree, Softly treading, the farmer came, Peeping so warily. Six feet high from his head to his toes; "What are you doing, farmer, pray? Jolly old farmer, say!" Up he caught them both in his arms; Oh, the shrieks, the merry alarms! Closer clasping them lovingly, "I'm gathering apples!" said he, said he, "I'm gathering apples!" said he. |
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