“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 I 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.”
The Bard on the Hill 
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