Anonymous 

“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 e’er 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.’   

Traditional