Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently falls the rain.
I never had but one true love,
And in greenwood he lies slain.
I’ll do as much for my true love
As any a young girl may.
I’ll sit and mourn all on his grave
For twelve months and a day.
And when twelve months and a day had passed,
The ghost did rise and speak,
«Why do you sit all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?»
'Tis I, 'tis I, thine own true love
That sits all on your grave
I ask one kiss from your sweet lips
And that is all that I crave.
My breast is cold as the clay;
My breath is earthly strong.
And if you kiss my cold, clay lips,
You’re days will not be long.
Go fetch me water from the desert sand
And blood from out the stone.
Go fetch me milk from a fair maid’s breast
That young man has never known
How oft on yonder grave, Sweetheart
Where we were wont to walk—
The fairest flower that I e’re saw
Has withered to a stalk.
When shall we meet again, sweetheart?
When shall we meet again?
When the oaken leaves that fall from the trees
Are green and spring up again,