The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmer'd her moans
Her salt tears fell from her and soft'ned the stones.
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve
He was born to be fair, I to die for his love,
I call'd my love false love but what said he then?
If I court more women, you'll couch with more men.
Sing all a green willow must be in my garland,
Sing all a green willow, willow, willow, willow
Sing all a green willow
My garland shall be.