Late September, a frost is due,
Let me wander my orchard through,
What is it that I seem to see?
One last peach, the last on the tree!
One last peach I may cull for me,
One last peach, the last on the tree.

'Tis not red, it is white as I,
Ripening white as the bleachen sky;
Late, late Heath, shall I pull down thee?
One last peach, the last on the tree!
One last peach I may cull for me,
One last peach, the last on the tree.

Leaves are many like my thick hairs;
Desolate peach! are we left no pairs?
Once there was rapture for you and me,
One last peach, the last on the tree!
One last peach I may cull for me,
One last peach, the last on the tree!

They were luscious and debonair,
Peaches and sweethearts everywhere,
Where so many we plucked them free,
One last peach, the last on the tree!
One last peach I may pluck for me,
One last peach, the last on the tree.

Now we are lonely we are chaste—
Grapes are high for the fox's taste;
My old spouse I will give her thee!
One last peach, the last on the tree.
One last peach, 'tis the frost's decree,
One last peach, the last on the tree.