But that's not the flower for me;
So I plucked the bud,
And it pricked me to blood,
And I gazed on the willow tree.
Othe willow tree it will twist,
And the willow tree, it will turn;
I would I were clasped
In my lover's arms fast,
For 'tis he that has stolen my thyme.
O it's very good drinking of ale,