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My Orchad 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 over head,
An' water's 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 timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, over 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.

Poem by William Barnes
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