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 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."
Anónimo
