[home]                     [song index]                         [about miriam]


(learned from Linda Allen in 1958)

In my garden grows plenty of thyme,
And it grows there by night and by day.
But along came my love, and he took all I have,
And he stole my thyme away,
    and he stole my thyme away.

Now I was a lady so fair,
But fairer I wished to appear.
So I bathed me in milk, and I dressed me in silk,
And I put the sweet thyme in my hair,
    and I put the sweet thyme in my hair.

In June grows the red rosy fair,
But that is no flower for me.
For I plucked at the bud, and it pricked me to blood,
Now I gaze on the willow tree,
    now I gaze on the willow tree.

(from miriam berg's folksong collection)
(see also I Sowed the Seeds of Love)