Come all you fair and tender girls,
That flourish in your prime,
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair,
Let no man steal your thyme,
Let no man steal your thyme.

For when your thyme it is past and gone,
He'll care no more for you,
And every place where your thyme was waste,
Will all spread o'er with rue,
Will all spread o'er with rue.

The gardeners son was standing by,
Three flowers he gave to me,
The pink, the blue, and the violent true,
And the red red rosy tree,
And the red red rosy tree.

But I refuse the red rose bush,
And gained the willow tree,
That all the world may plainly see,
How my love slighted me,
How my love slighted me.