APPLES, FOUR A PENNY.
America is my nation, humble is my station,
A grocer by situation, oh, how shall I explain;
Well I loved a girl called Kitty, who sells apples in the city,
On me she'll not take pity, her love I tried to gain;
I've asked her in marriage, I've a donkey and a carriage.
And I'd take her out to Harlem, if she'd bat name the day.
But now she goes each morning, and thro' the streets she's hauling
A hand-truck, and loudly calling, in a voice so loud And high,
Apples, ripe and rosy, here's your fine strawberry.
Damson plums And cherries, you can taste before you buy.
I oft at market meet her, and with smiles I greet her,
And then I wish to treat her as one that I love dear;
And if I do tell her of some bargains I could sell her,
A nasty, low-lifed fellow says, what do you want here?
And if to her I'm speaking, perhaps with fond words greeting,
This fellow's always sneaking, And every word will hear.
And now she goes, etc.
I made up my mind one morning, upon this fellow calling,
To tell him of my falling in love with Kitty dear;
Well, I did repent it, for he raised his fist and sent it
To my nose And bent it; what shall I do? oh, dear!
For her I'm always fretting, the tears my eyes are wetting,
So I'll drown my woes in betting, for I've always in my ear-
So now she goes, etc.