There's never the taste of a cherry for me,
They're out of my reach on the bough,
And it's hard to be seeing them hang on the tree—
And no man to hand me them now.

It's hard to be travelling since Billy Boy died,
With the devil's own crick in my back,
With the gout in my knees and a stitch in my side—
And no man to carry my pack.

It's hard to be travelling the roads all alone
When cherries hang handy and ripe—
And no man to find me a soft mossy stone,
And no man to light me my pipe.