By this piece of weeping wood
Lady fell, lady stood
Like its crooked lines
Time to us hasn't been kind
Softly blows the willow, aching through my echo
Softly blows the willow, aching through this echo
Such fear of busy hands
Bells toll witch hunt through the land
Hear your daughters years on, saying;
"Sister, where have we gone?"
Softly blows the willow, aching through my echo
Softly blows the willow, aching through this echo
