Music by Ralph Vaughan Williams
Words by William Barnes
Within the woodlands, flowery gladed, By the oak tree's mossy moot, The shining grass-blades, timber-shaded, Now do quiver under foot; 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 do 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.