Richard, come and play with me,
Underneath the willow tree;
Sitting in its peaceful shade,
We’ll sing the song papa has made,
Whilst its drooping branches spread,
Stretching far above our head,
Sweetly tempering the blaze
Of the sun’s meridian rays.
There the rose and violet blow,
The lily with her bell of snow,
And the richly scented woodbine,
Round about its trunk doth twine;
There the busy bee shall come,
And gather sweets to carry home.
Oh, how happy we shall be,
Underneath the willow tree!

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