Arthur Sullivan — The Willow Song

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 murmur'd her moans; Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones; Sing willow, willow, willow; Sing all a green willow must be my garland Sing willow, willow, willow; The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones; Sing willow, willow, willow; Sing all a green willow must be my garland Sing willow, willow, willow;