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The Song Book
In June came the rose so red,
And that's the flower for me ; But when I gather'd the rose so dear
I gain'd but the willow tree.
Oh ! the willow tree will twist, And the willow tree will twine;
And would I were in the young man's arms, That ever has this heart of mine.
My gardener, as he stood by,
He bade me take great care, For if I gather'd the rose so red,
There groweth up a sharp thorn there.
I told him I'd take no care,
Till I did feel the smart, And still did press the rose so dear
Till the thorn did pierce my heart.
A posy of hyssop I'll make,
No other flower I'll touch, That all the world may plainly see
I love one flower too much.
My garden is now run wild ;
When I shall plant anew, My bed, that once was fill'd with thyme,
Is now o'errun with rue.
Chappell. Tune Traditional.