Come all you fair and tender maids
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 is past and gone,
He’ll care no more for you,
And every place where your thyme was waste
Will all spread o’re with rue,
Will all spread o’re with rue.

Chorus
For woman is a branchy tree,
And man’s a clinging vine,
And from your branches carelessly
He’ll take what he can find,
He’ll take what he can find.

The gardener’s son was standing by;
Three flowers he gave to me
The pink, the blue, and the violet, too,
And the red, red rosy tree,
The red, red, rosy tree.

But I forsook the red rose bush
and gained the willow tree,
So all the world might plainly see
How my love slighted me,
How my love slighted me.

Chorus

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

A traditional British and Irish folk Ballad first documented in 1689