O’ Weeping Willow tree— Why again cry, doth ye? Doest yer’ young sullen boy, Not tend thy olde corse?

Do ye feel the wind say— Hesting another soul to sway? Doth yer’ branches beckon, Thy Boy ne’er touch Heaven?

Doest the slow crawling blight— Seduce thy ending fight? Shall the chill somber calls, Rot the still winds of fall?

The cold macabre sway— Thy Boy wast lost today! Why, slender branch gallows, Doth ye take the callow?