Linden Lea

Within the woodlands flowery gladed

By the oak tree's mossy moot

The shining grass-blades, timber shaded

Now do quiver under 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

Up upon the timber tops

And brown-leaved fruits are 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