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
And there 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
For 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