Classic Poem

My lodging it is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me most, is
The unkindness of my dear.
Yet still I cry, "O turn love,'
And I 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 we will 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 I prithee love turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone art
The cause of my misery.