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My
lodging it is on the cold ground,
And oh! very hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me most is
The unkindness of my dear.
Yet still I cry, 'Oh turn, love,'
And Prithee, love turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack! what remedy?'
'I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring;
My frozen hopes shall thaw, then,
And merrily will we sing:
O turn to me, my dear love,
And prithee love, turn to me;
For thou art the man that alone canst
Procure my liberty.'
But if thou wilt harden thy heart still
And be deaf to my pitiful moan,
Then I must endure the smart still
And tumble in straw alone:
Yet still I cry, 'O turn love,
And prithee, love, turn to me!
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.'
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