The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;

Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all a green willow my garland must be
Sing all a green willow;
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve
Sing willow, willow, willow
I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!
Sing willow, willow, willow