A poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all the 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,
Her salt tears ran from her and soften’d the stones,
Sing willow, willow, willow.

Sing all a green willow must be in my garland,
Sing willow, willow, willow.

The fresh streams ran by her and murmur’d her moans,
Her salt tears ran from her and soften’d the stones,
Sing willow, willow, willow.

Sing all a green willow must be in my garland,
Sing willow, willow, willow.