The appleseeds grew, and we, to-day,
Eat of the fruit planted by the way.
While Johnny—bless him—is under the sod—
His body is—ah! he is with God;
For, child, though it seemed a trifling deed,
For a man just to plant an appleseed,
The apple-tree's shade, the flowers, the fruit,
Have proved a blessing to man and to brute.
Look at the orchards throughout the land,
All of them planted by old Johnny's hand.