Within the woodland flow'ry gladed By the oak tree's mossy root The shining grass blade timber shaded Now do quiver on the 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 High upon the timber tops, And brown leaved fruit is turning red, In cloudless sunshine overhead, With root 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 do not dread a peevish master Though no man may 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. To where, for me, the apple tree Do lean down low, in Linden Lea.