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I 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. | |
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II Ill do as much for my true-love | 5 |
As any young man may; | |
Ill sit and mourn all at her grave | |
For a twelvemonth and a day. | |
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III The twelvemonth and a day being up, | |
The dead began to speak: | 10 |
Oh who sits weeping on my grave, | |
And will not let me sleep? | |
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IV Tis I, my love, sits on your grave, | |
And will not let you sleep; | |
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, | 15 |
And that is all I seek. | |
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V 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. | 20 |
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VI Tis down in yonder garden green, | |
Love, where we used to walk, | |
The finest flower that ere was seen | |
Is witherd to a stalk. | |
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VII The stalk is witherd dry, my love, | 25 |
So will our hearts decay; | |
So make yourself content, my love, | |
Till God calls you away. | |
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