The unquiet grave

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