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.