These all have their charms, but my thoughts turn again
To the old Kentish Cherry that grows in our lane.
Through association some objects we prize,
Though the sight of them start a tear in our eyes;
Yon grapery Janet planted, south of the hill,
Though long she’s been dead, and her voice is now still,
’Neath that vine fancy sees her, and hears as of yore,
When sweetly she sang “Stilly Night” of Tom Moore.
And when I first heard her, oh, I mind it so plain,
’Twas beneath the old cherry that grows in our lane.