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 begin to speak: Oh who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep? 'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave, And 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 ere 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. |