’TIS THE APPLES.
Little kid,
Frisking kid,
Pretty as a fawn,
Runs to me when I pass
Where he lies in the grass,
At the early dawn.
Little one, pretty pet,
You have not forgotten yet
How the other day I fed
You with apples, rosy-red,
By the garden wall.
’Tis for juicy apples sweet
You are kneeling at my feet,
’Tis the apples you love so—
Apples, and not me, I know,
Oh, not me at all!