A poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all the green willow, willow Her hand on her bosom, her hand on her knee Sing all the green willow, willow Must be in my garland The fresh streams ran by her and murmur'd her moans Sing willow, willow Her salt tears ran from her and soften'd the stones Sing all the green willow, willow Must be in my garland I call'd my love false love but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow If I court more women, you'll couch with moe men! Nobody blame me; scorn I approve Nobody blame me; scorn I approve