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. Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry. TIR'D with all these, for restful death I cry,— And captive good attending captain ill ;— Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. |