They tell me in their letter, sweetheart, that we can never wed.
To make you my bride would hurt their pride. You must marry an earl instead.
Their riches, they say, they never will share with me because I am poor,
And that they placed you in a cell, behind the cold iron door.

My love for you will never, never die. My fight, I will carry it through.
It is written that where there's a will there's a way, and some day the sky will be blue.
I pray to the maker in heaven each night, and I know you've been praying for me,
That he guides every step to the end of the trail, where love meets and I set you free.

He tunneled his way 'neath the cold dreary ground. Each night he made his way,
A race against time that soon he must find, before her dark wedding day.
At last, a faint weary cry he heard. His fight for love, it was o'er.
Thank god, I have reached you, my darling, tonight. I've struck the cold iron door.

One mighty blast, and behold, and at last, the big gate swung far aside.
Imprisoned there like some lonely bird, I found my future bride.
Although they took you away from my arms, you’ve been punished for loving the poor.
Thank god, my love for you at last has entered the cold iron door.