Linden Lea

Within the woodland flow'ry gladed
By the oak tree's mossy root
The shining grass blade timber shaded
Now do quiver on the foot
And birds do whistle overhead
And water's bubbling in its bed
And there for me the apple tree
Do lean down low, in Linden Lea.

When leaves that lately were a-springing
Now do fade within the copse
And painted birds do hush their singing
High upon the timber tops,
And brown leaved fruit is turning red,
In cloudless sunshine overhead,
With root for me the apple tree
Do lean down low, in Linden Lea.

Let other folk make money faster
In the air of dark roomed towns.
I do not dread a peevish master
Though no man may heed my frowns
For I be free to go abroad
Or take again my homeward road
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low, in Linden Lea.
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low, in Linden Lea.