VIII.—Orchard Street.
The fruit hangs ripe, the fruit hangs sweet,
High and low in my Orchard Street,
Apples and pears, cherries and plums,
Something for everyone who comes.
If you're a Pedlar
I'll give you a medlar;
If you're a Prince
I'll give you a quince;
If you're a Queen,
A nectarine;
If you're the King
Take anything,
Apricots, mulberries, melons or red and white
Currants like rubies and pearls on a string!
Little girls each
Shall have a peach,
Boys shall have grapes that hang just out of reach—
Nothing's to pay, whatever you eat
Of the fruit that grows in my Orchard Street.
"USEFL. hlp. ckng. no wshg. fam. 2."
Morning Paper.
Th. is rl. wd. plp. ecnmy.