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 morn 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 at 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.