Oh my love and my own own deary! What shall I do? my love is weary. Sleep, O friend, on soft downy pillow, Pass, O friend, as wind or as billow, And I'll wear the willow. No stone at his head be set, A swelling turf be his coverlet Bound round with a graveyard wattle; Hedged round from the trampling cattle And the children's prattle. I myself, instead of a stone, Will sit by him to dwindle and moan; Sit and weep with a bitter weeping, Sit and weep where my love lies sleeping While my life goes creeping. |