Down in the orchard, down in the orchard,
Under the gold-apple tree,
One little maid and two little maids
Frolic, merry and free.
Brown as a berry, red as a rose,
Sweeter maidens nobody knows.
"What are you doing, Marjorie?
Marjorie, tell to me?"
Up she lifted her curly head,
(Oh, but her cheeks were rosy-red!)
Shaking her curls right saucily,
"I'm gathering apples!" said she, said she,
"I'm gathering apples!" said she.
Down in the orchard, down in the orchard,
Under the gold-apple tree,
Softly treading, the farmer came,
Peeping so warily.
Six feet high from his head to his toes;
A jollier farmer nobody knows.
"What are you doing, farmer, pray?
Jolly old farmer, say!"
Up he caught them both in his arms;
Oh, the shrieks, the merry alarms!
Closer clasping them lovingly,
"I'm gathering apples!" said he, said he,
"I'm gathering apples!" said he.