Behold the bonny apple tree,
Prettiest thing you'd ever see,
Little thought of trouble has she,
Sweetly decked in blooms
Day by day, she ever flirts,
With those dancing amid her rosy skirts
No robin, bee nor maid ever hurts
She who gives such joy.
Yet amid such gaiety,
With no thought of calamity,
Still looming close with certainty,
Dark clouds spell out her doom.
Battering, pelting through the sky,
Every rosy petal falls to die,
Not every moan is the wind's own sigh,
Oh the poor little apple tree!
Barren branches limply hang,
Where formerly little birds sang,
Oh, how sharply all feel the pang,
Of beauty ground to dust.
But the bonny little apple tree,
Much more she knows then we,
For coursing through her secretly,
Is life for blooms again.
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