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.
Take this for my farewell and latest adieu,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Write this on my tomb, that in love I was true.
O willow willow willow shall be my garland...
