Charles Hubert Hastings Parry
2 voix · Voice, Piano
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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; Sing willow, willow, willow, Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
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