Using Google Book Search, I found this in The Dublin Magazine, 1842. The editor says: "It was got from an old woman at Castlemartyr, in the county of Cork.... When a girl she had heard it from her grandfather. We have not found it in any published collection."

THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR'S NEVER DONE.

I married a wife for to sit by me, which makes me sorely to repent.
Matches, they say, are made in heaven, but mine was for a penance sent.
I soon became a servant to her, to milk her cows and black her shoon,
For woman's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labour's never done.

The very first year that we were married, she gave to me a pretty babe.
She sat me down to rock its cradle, and give it cordial when it waked.
If it cried, she would bitterly scold me, and if it bawled I should run away,
For woman's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labour's never done.

So all ye young men that are inclined to marry, be sure and marry a loving wife,
And do not marry my wife's sister, or she will plague you all your life.
Do not marry her mother's daughter, or she will grieve your heart full sore,
Take from me my wife, and welcome—and then my care and trouble is o'er.