LINDEN LEA
Within the woodlands, flow'ry gladed,
By the oak trees' mossy moot,
The shining grass blades, timber shaded,
Now do quiver underfoot;
And the birds do whistle overhead,
And the 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 timbertops;
And brown leav'd fruits 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-room'd towns;
I don't dread a peevish master,
Tho' 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.
Words by W. Barnes. Music by R. Vaughan Williams
HTML line breaks added. --JoeClone, 28-Apr-03.