There lies a little farmhouse away across the moor
Where lives old farmer Wilkins. He's nearly 74.
An orchard and some meadows he owns a tidy few.
A cider such as he can make no other man can brew.

CHORUS: So fill up the cider cup and have another round.
Of all the drinks in England, no better can be found.

This grand old man is lusty and in the last of prime.
He'll shin thee up an apple tree in the twinkling of an eye.
He says an apple daily keeps the doctor from the door,
And several pints of cider the harm will help thee cure.

The farmer likens apple to the people that you meet:
The choice ones can be sour while the plain ones can be sweet,
But put them all into a press with the ones between,
And you'll come up with a mixture that is guaranteed to please.

Over the churchyard wall, the apple branches lean
And ripen off the burdens, red and gold and green.
In autumn, the apples fall, among the gravestones lie.
"There I'll shall sleep," says farmer, "when 'tis time for me to die."

Our roots are in the countryside. My heart is here to stay.
And now my trunk is failing; my limbs begin to sway.
I hope that when I've fallen and my life is at an end,
You'll lay me 'neath the branches and drink to your old friend.