Classic Poem

Down by the river there grows a green willow;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow,
And all for my true love, my true love, O!
When bleak blows the wind, and tempests are beating,
I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating,
For true lovers' joys, well-a-day! are as fleeting.
Sing, O for my true love! my true love, O!

Maids come in pity when I am departed;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
When dead on the bank I am found broken-hearted,
And all for my true love, my true love, O!
Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing,
Close to the stream, where my tears once were flowing,
And over my corse keep the green willow growing;
'Tis all for my true love, my true love, O!