Within the woodland, flow'ry gladed,
By the oak trees' mossy moot;
The shining grass blade 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,
High 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-room'd 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.