There's a little house by an orchard side
Where the Spring wears pink and white;
There's a garden with pansies and London pride,
And a bush of lad's delight.
Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen
As trim as a garden can be,
And the grass of the orchard is much more green
Than most of the grass you see.
There used to be always a mother's smile
And a father's face at the door,
When one clambered over the orchard stile,
So glad to be home once more.
But now I never go by that way,
For when I was there of late,
A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,
And a stranger leaned on the gate.