Classic Poem

'Twas early in the springtime of the year,
When the sun did begin to shine;
Oh I had three branches, all for to choose but one,
And the first I chose was thyme.

Thyme, thyme, it is a precious thing,
It's a root that the sun shines on;
And time it will bring everything to an end,
And so our time goes on.

And while that I had my thyme all for my own,
It did flourish by night and day,
Till who came along but a jolly sailor lad,
And stole my thyme away.

And now my thyme is perished for me,
And I never shall plant it more,
Since into the place where my thyme did use to spring
Is grown a running rue.

Rue, rue, it is a running root,
And it runs all too fast for me;
I'll dig up the bed where thyme of old was laid
And plant there a brave oak tree.

Stand up, oh stand up, my jolly oak,
Stand you up, for you shall not die!
For I'll be so true to the one I love so dear
As the stars shine bright in the sky.