DESDEMONA’S SONG, RECONSTRUCTED BY EMINENT SCHOLARS.

The poor sap sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
With the sketchiest knowledge of Gray’s Botanee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by him, and said, “’Tis a plane,”
Sing willow, willow, willow,
“Platanus in Latin”—but spoke all in vain;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all those dang trees look like willows to me.