Текст:
I wish, I wish my baby was bornsitting on his papa's knee
and you, poor girl, were dead and gonegreen grass growing over thee
I'm not no saint, nor I never shall be
'til the sweet apple grows
from the sour apple tree
I still hope the day will come
when you and I will walk as one
and you, poor girl, were dead and gonegreen grass growing over thee
I'm not no saint, nor I never shall be
'til the sweet apple grows
from the sour apple tree
I still hope the day will come
when you and I will walk as one
