Come, all you pretty fair maids,
That are just in your prime;
I would have you weed your garden clear,
And let no one steal your thyme.
I once had a sprig of thyme,
It prospered night and day;
By chance there came a false young man,
And he stole my thyme away.
Thyme is the prettiest flower,
That grows under the sun;
It's time that brings all things to an end,
So now my thyme runs on.
But now my old thyme's dead,
I've got no room for any new,
For in that place where my old thyme grew,
Is changed to a running rue.
. . . . . .
It's very well drinking ale,
And it's very well drinking wine,
But it's far better sitting by a young man's side
That has won this heart of mine.
Traditional Tunes, A collection of Ballad Airs, ISBN 1-86143-081-7
Collected by Frank Kidson from Mr Lolley
(Search Roud index at VWML) Take Six
The Seeds of Love