Within the woodlands, flow'ry gladed

By the oak trees' mossy moot

The shining grass blades timber shaded

Now do quiver underfoot

And birds do whistle overhead

An 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 with 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 room'd 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