  I‘The wind doth blow to-day, my love, And a few small drops of rain; I never had but one true-love; In cold grave she was lain. II‘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.’ IIIThe twelvemonth and a day being up, The dead began to speak: ‘Oh who sits weeping on my grave, And will not let me sleep?’— IV‘’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.’— V‘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. VI‘’Tis down in yonder garden green, Love, where we used to walk, The finest flower that ere was seen Is wither’d to a stalk. VII‘The stalk is wither’d dry, my love, So will our hearts decay; So make yourself content, my love, Till God calls you away.’ |
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