---

I was a young man, I was a rover,
Nothing would satisfy me but a wife.
Soon as I reached the age of twenty
Weary was I of a single life.

The very first year my wife I married,
Out of her company I could not stay.
Her voice was sweet as the lark or the linnet
Or the nightingale at the break of day.

Now she's fairly altered her meaning,
Now she's fairly changed her tune.
Nothing but scolding comes from her mouth
Though the poor man's labour's never done.

The very first year my wife I married
Scarce could I get one half hour's sleep.
With her two knees she rubbed my shins,
Cries, “Husband dear, put down your feet.”

The baby cried, she bitterly scolded,
Down to the door I was forced for to run.
Without trousers, a wig or a waistcoat,
The poor man's labour's never done.

I went up to the top of the hill
For to view my sheep that had all gone astray.
When I came back she was lying in her bed
At twelve o'clock on a winter's day.

When I came back both wet and weary,
Weary and wet, now where could I run?
She was lying in her bed, the fire up beside her,
She said, “Young man, is the kettle on?”

Oh, I'll go home to my aged mother,
She'll be sitting all alone;
Says there's plenty young women to be had
Why should I be tied to one?

All young men that is to marry
Though they'll grieve you ever more,
Death o Death, come take my wife
And then my sorrows will be o'er.

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