Classic Poem

'Tis oft I'm tired of an old man,
And now got caught at last.
I wish to God he had a-been dead
Before the night was past.
I wish the death might seize him
And take him at one call,
So that I might have a young man,
I'd roll from wall to wall.

He comes to bed at midnight,
His feet are cold as clay,
His feet are cold as midnight,
As any corpse you say.
His joints are out of order,
His pipes are all of one tune.
I wish to God he had a-been dead
And a young man in his room.

It was my cruel parents
That caused me to trepan,
To marry such an old man
For the sake of money and land.
I'd rather have a young man
Without any money at all.
He would take me in his arms, my love,
And roll me from the wall.

'Tis hold your tongue, dear Polly;
When first you came to town,
I bought you a beaver bonnet,
Likewise a silken gown.
There's never a lady in this land
That you and I can compare.
I'll buy you a little lapdog
To follow you at the fair.

I values not your lapdog,
No not your gentle care;
To pity such an old man
Of beauty me ensnare.
My age is scarcely sixteen,
I am scarcely in my bloom.
You are my daily torment
Both morning, night and noon.

Some they do persuade me
To drown him in a well;
Others do persuade me
To grind him in a mill.
I'd rather take my own advice
And tie him to a stake
And then I'd hammer his old hide
Until his bones did break.