But ah, alas, that will not be
Till apples grow on the willow tree.

A drunken gambler's young wife used to sing that song -- to herself.

A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of "Pinter," and old Poynton,
Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard,
and they proceed to "git Pinter on the singin' lay,"
and at last talk him round. He has a good voice, but no "theory",
and blunders worse than Jimmy Nowlett with the words.
He starts with a howl --

Hoh!
Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings
A-strolling I did go,
To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers
That e'er in gardings grow.

He saw the rose and lily -- the red and white and blue --
and he saw the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e'er in gardings grew;
for he saw two lovely maidens (Pinter calls 'em "virgings")
underneath (he must have meant on top of) "a garding chair", sings Pinter.

And one was lovely Jessie,
With the jet black eyes and hair,

roars Pinter,

And the other was a vir-ir-ging,
I solemn-lye declare!