Within the woodlands, flowery glade
By the oak trees' mossy moot,
The shining grass blades, timber-shaded,

Now do quiver underfoot;
And birds do whistle overhead,
An 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