I wish, I wish my baby was born

Sittin on her mama's knee

But you, poor girl are dead and gone

And grass is growing over thee.


Oh I'm not no saint, no I never shall be

Til the sweet apple grows on a sour apple tree

Still I hope that the day will come

When you and I will walk as one.


I wish I wish my baby was born

Sittin on her papa's knee

But you poor girl are dead and gone

And grass growing over thee.