Lyrics : William Barnes
Music : Ralph Vaughan Williams
Within the woodlands, flow’ry gladed,
By the oak tree’s mossy moot,
The shining grass-blades, timber-shaded,
Now do quiver underfoot;
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 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.