The nut tree grows in the garden of
The King of Spain's daughter so well
She tends it every day with love
And morning dew herself.

The nut tree's leaves are gleaming;
There's a harvest a-glittering there,
A hundred silver nutmegs,
But still no golden pear.

She took my tree, and my tree will have its revenge

She has no other pleasures, for
The garden is her only care,
But never since the tree was mine has it
Borne her a golden pear.

She has five hundred nutmegs,
That's much more than you could ever need,
But covets that one golden globe
That grew upon my tree.

She took my tree...

She asked the Queen her mother
What can I do that I ought to do?
The nut tree's laden with nutmegs
But no golden pear will grow.

Daughter, dearest daughter
There's only one thing can be done;
The tree is crying out for food-
A meal of blood and bone.

She took my tree...

The daughter of the King of Spain
Went out into the garden and cried.
She knew of none that could be had
She wasted away and died.

And they buried her beneath its roots
When the branches were barren and bare,
And the tree flourished and bore not
Nutmegs, but thousands of golden pears.

She took my tree, and my tree has had its revenge.