The willow song Betty Roe

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;