The poor soul sat singing 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.
…
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve;
…
I called my love false love, but what said he then?
(Sing willow, willow, willow)
If I court more women, you’ll couch with more men.