The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,

Sing all a green willow, willow, 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 softened the stones;

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Let nobody blame him,

his scorn I approve,

I called my love false love;

but what said he then?

Sing willow, willow, willow.