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, willow, shall be my garland: Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow! Aye me, the green willow must be my garland. He sighed in 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, willow, shall be my garland: Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow! Aye me, the green willow must be my garland. |