Linden Lea

Text:

Within the woodlands flow’ry gladed, By the oak tree’s mossy moot; The shining grass blades, timber shaded, Now do quiver underfoot; 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, Up upon the timber tops; And brown-leaved fruit’s a-turning red, In cloudless sunshine overhead, With fruit 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 don’t dread a peevish master, Though no man may heed my frowns. 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.