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 earthly strong; If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long. "Tis down in younder 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.