W. Barnes
1. Within the woodlands, flow'ry gladed,
By the oak trees'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.
2. When leaves, that lately were aspringing,
Now do fade within the copse,
And painted birds do hush their singing,
Up upon the timber tops;
And brown leav'd fruit's a-turning red,
In cloudless sunshine overhead,
With fruit for me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
3. Let other folk make money faster,
In the air of dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish master,
Tho' no man may heed my frowns.
I be free to go abroad,
ar take again my homeward road,
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
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