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Cold blows the wind to my true love, |
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And gently drops the rain. |
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I've never had but one true love, |
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And in green-wood he lies slain. |
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I'll do as much for my true love, |
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As any young girl may, |
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I'll sit and mourn all on his grave, |
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For twelve months and a day. |
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And when twelve months and a day was passed, |
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The ghost did rise and speak, |
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"why sittest thou all on my grave |
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And will no let me sleep?" |
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"Go fetch me water from the desert, |
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And blood from out the stone, |
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Go fetch me milk from a fair maid's breast |
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That young man never has known." |
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"My breast is cold as clay, |
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My breath is earthly strong, |
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And if you kiss my cold clay lips, |
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You days they won't be long." |
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"How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart, |
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Where we were want to walk, |
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The fairest flower that e'er I saw |
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Has withered to a stalk." |
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"when will we meet again, sweetheart, |
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When will we meet again?" |
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"when the autumn leaves that fall from the trees |
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Are green and spring up again." |
