My Orcha'D In Linden Lea

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen grass bleades, timber-sheaded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle auver head, An' water's bubblen in its bed, An' ther vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. When leaves that leately wer a-springen Now do feade 'ithin the copse, An' painted birds do hush ther zingen Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, auver head, Wi' fruit vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. Let other vo'k meake money vaster In the air o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish measter; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teake agean my hwomeward road To where vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.