"The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love
In cold grave she was lain.
"I'll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
for a twelvemonth and a day."
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"
"Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And I will not let you sleep;
for I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek."
"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
but my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long."
"Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e'er was seen
is withered to a stalk."
"The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away."