The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing willow, willow, willow
With his hand in his bosom, and his head upon his knee,
O willow willow willow shall be my garland.
Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow;
Aye me the green willow must be my garland!
He sighed to his singing, and made a great moan,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love, she is gone.
O willow willow willow shall be my garland.
Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow;
Aye me the green willow must be my garland!
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