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 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 do 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.