PR Website - The Unquiet Grave

Cold blows the wind to-night, my love, Cold are the drops of rain; The very first love that ever I had In greenwood he was slain.
'I'll do as much for my true-love As any young woman may; I'll sit and mourn upon his grave A twelve-month and a day.'
When a twelve-month and a day were up, His body straight arose: 'What brings you weeping oer my grave That I get no respose?'
'O think upon the garden, love, Where you and I did walk; The fairest flower that blossomd there Is withered on the stalk.
'The stalk will bear no leaves, sweet-heart, The flower will neer return, And my true-love is dead, is dead, And i do naught but mourn.'
'What is it that you want of me And will not let me sleep? Your salten tears they trickle down And wet my winding-sheet.'
'What is it that I want of thee, O what of thee in grave? A kiss from off your lily-white lips, And that is all I crave.'
'Cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart, My breath is earthy strong; If you do touch my clay-cold lips, Your time will not be long.'
'Cold though your lips in death, sweet-heart, One kiss is all I crave; I care not, if I kiss but thee, That I should share thy grave.'
'Go fetch me a light from dungeon deep, Wring water from a stone, And likewise milk from a maiden's breast That never maid hath none. (read babe had.)

'Now if you were not true in word, As now I know you be, I'd tear you as the withered leaves Are torn from off the tree.'