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