My mother doesn't like me

My mother doesn't like me,

And no sweetheart do I have,

Oh why don't I die?

What am I doing here?

Yesterday there was a church fair,

But of course no one saw me,

For I am so unhappy

that I do not dance at all.

Let them be, those three roses

that bloom near the little cross:

Were you acquainted with the little maiden

who lies under it?