The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow.
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones
Sing willow, willow, willow
Sing all a green willow must be my garland
