'ITHIN the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded,

By the woak tree's mossy moot, oak, stump

The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded, shining

Now do quiver under voot;

An’ birds do whissle over head,

An’ water's bubblèn in its bed,

An’ there vor me the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn

Now do feäde 'ithin the copse,

An’ païnted birds do hush their zingèn

Up upon the timber's tops;

An’ brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red,

In cloudless zunsheen, over head, sunshine

Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meäke money vaster folk, faster

In the aïr o’ dark-room'd towns,

I don't dread a peevish meäster;

Though noo man do heed my frowns,

I be free to goo abrode, out and about

Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road

To where, vor me, the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.