A poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all the green willow, willow
Her hand on her bosom, her hand on her knee
Sing all the green willow, willow
Must be in my garland
The fresh streams ran by her and murmur'd her moans
Sing willow, willow
Her salt tears ran from her and soften'd the stones
Sing all the green willow, willow
Must be in my garland
I call'd my love false love but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow
If I court more women, you'll couch with moe men!
Nobody blame me; scorn I approve
Nobody blame me; scorn I approve

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