No 7 THE SPRIG OF THYME

1 In my garden grew plenty of Thyme, It would flourish by night and by day; O'er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had, And stole my thyme away. 2 My garden with heartsease was bright, The pansy so pied and so gay; One slipped through the gate, and alas! cruel fate, My heartsease took away. 3 My garden grew self-heal and balm, And speedwell that's blue for an hour, Then blossoms again, O grievous my pain! I'm plundered of each flower. 4 There grows in my garden the rue, And Love-lies-a-bleeding droops there, The hyssop and myrrh, the teazle and burr, In place of blossoms fair. 5 The willow with branches that weep, The thorn and the cypress tree, O why were the seeds of such dolorous weeds, Thus scattered there by thee?