'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaeded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleaedes, timber-sheaeded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leaetely wer a-springen
Now do feaede 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meaeke money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish meaester;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teaeke ageaen my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.