It's the thirtieth day of June on a Sunday afternoon,
While I sit and wonder how I'll spend my time;
As I sit here in jail with a washpan and a pail,
I could use them both - it's bake-apple picking time.
Oh, when it's bake-apple time in Newfoundland,
As you drive along the road,
And the little ones running freely to and fro;
All the girls are having fun as they pick them one-by-one,
It's the only place where the bake-apple berries grow.
I've been down to Annapolis Valley,
I've picked apples from the trees,
I've seen the oranges down California way;
And in every grocery store you can buy them by the score,
But the bake-apple only grows in Newfoundland.
Oh, when it's bake-apple time in Newfoundland,
As you drive along the road,
And the little ones running freely to and fro;
All the girls are having fun as they pick them one-by-one,
It's the only place where the bake-apple berries grow.
Now we lost our Union Jack and we'll never get it back,
Some say this new one's just a piece of rag;
But if I had my say and designed it my own way,
I'd paint the bake-apple on the Newfie flag.
Oh, when it's bake-apple time in Newfoundland,
As you drive along the road,
And the little ones running freely to and fro;
All the girls are having fun as they pick them one-by-one,
It's the only place where the bake-apple berries grow.