The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
(Sing all a green willow, willow willow willow,)
With his hand in his bosom and his head upon his knee.
(Oh willow, willow, willow
Shall be my garland.)
He sighed in his singing and made a great moan…
I am dead to all pleasure, my true love she is gone…
The mute bird sat by him was made tame by his moans…
The true tears fell from him, would have melted the stones…
Come all you forsaken and mourn you with me…
Who speaks of a false love, mine’s falser than she…
Let love no more boast her in palace nor bower…
It buds, but it blasteth ere it be a flower…
Though fair and more false, I die with thy wound…
Thou hast lost the truest lover that goes upon the ground, sing…
Let nobody chide her, her scorns I approve…
She was born to be false, and I to die for her love…
Take this for my farewell and latest adieu…
Write this on my tomb, that in love I was true…