Intro:        >          >   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.