Anonymous, c. 1500

            The Unquiet Grave

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 morn 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 at 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 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.