My Orcha'd In Linden Lea
By William Barnes
Ithin the woodlands, flowry gleaded,
By the woak trees mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An birds do whissle over head,
An waters bubblen in its bed,
An there 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 their zingen
Up upon the timbers tops;
An brown-leavd fruits a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vok meake money vaster
In the air o dark-roomd towns,
I dont 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.