A young man sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing willow, willow!
With his hand in his bosom,
his head on his knee:
‖: O willow, willow! :‖ (×3)
He sighèd and sobbed, and after each groan,
I’m dead to all joys since my true love is gone;
‖: O willow, willow! :‖ (×3)
Come, all ye forsaken, and mourn now with me,
Who speaks of a false love, mine’s falser than she.
‖: O willow, willow! :‖ (×3)