My uncle is lusty, is nimble and spry,
As ribstones his cheeks, clear as crystal his eye,
His head snowy white as the flowering may,
And he drinks only cyder by night and by day.
Then fill up the jug, etc.
O’er the wall of the churchyard the apple trees lean
And ripen their burdens, red, golden, and green.
In autumn the apples among the graves lie;
“There I’ll sleep well,” says uncle, “when fated to die.”
Then fill up the jug, etc.