What to Do?

Omy 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.