"The black joke" had, as a remarkably scabrous song, been in existence for a century by the time Beethoven was commissioned to provide an arrangement. This is one of its last and most implausible appearances as a song, although it continued (and continues) to exist as a regimental march under the name "The sprig of Shillelagh", and as a dance in various morris traditions.

Lyrics: T. Toms

Oh, who sits so sadly and heaves the fond sigh?
Alas, cries poor Dermot, 'tis only poor I,
All under the willow, the willow so green.
My fair one has left me in sorrow to moan,
So here I am come just to die all alone;
No longer fond love shall my bosom enslave,
I am weaving a garland to hang o'er my grave,
All under the willow, the willow so green.

The fair one you love is, you tell me, untrue,
And here stands poor Shelagh, forsaken like you,
All under the willow, the willow so green.
O take me in sadness to sit by your side,
Your anguish to share, and your sorrows divide;
I'll answer each sigh, and I'll echo each groan,
And 'tis dismal you know, to be dying alone,
All under the willow, the willow so green.

Then close to each other they sat down to sigh
Resolving, in anguish, together to die,
All under the willow, the willow so green.
But he was so comely and she was so fair,
They somehow forgot all their sorrow and care;
And thinking it better a while to delay,
They put off their dying to toy and to play,
All under the willow, the willow so green.