“Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.”

“Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where's their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You're looking up at me now. I know what you're thinking, you poor little milky creature. You're thinking, you're no better than you should be, Polly, and that's good enough for me. Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?”

“. . . happiness grows at our own firesides, . . . . It is not to be picked in strangers' gardens.”

“Happiness grows at our own firesides, and is not to be picked in strangers' gardens. ”

“We're neither pure, nor wise, nor goodWe'll do the best we know.We'll build our house and chop our woodAnd make our garden grow.And make our garden grow!”

“But happiness ... happiness grows at our own firesides,' she said. 'It is not to be picked in strangers' gardens.”