Little Willie stood under an apple tree old,
The fruit was all shining with crimson and gold,
Hanging temptingly low—how he longed for a bite,
Though he knew if he took one it wouldn’t be right.
Said he, “I don’t see why my father should say,
‘Don’t touch the old apple tree, Willie, to-day;’
I shouldn’t have thought, now they’re hanging so low,
When I asked for just one, he would answer me, ‘No.’
“He would never find out if I took but just one,
And they do look so good, shining out in the sun,