| Cold blows the wind to my true love
|
| And gently drops the rain
|
| I’ve never had but one true love
|
| And in green-wood he lies slain
|
| I’ll do as much for my true love
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| As any 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 was passed
|
| The ghost did rise and speak
|
| «Why sittest thou all on my grave
|
| And will no let me sleep?»
|
| «Go fetch me water from the desert
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| And blood from out the stone
|
| Go fetch me milk from a fair maid’s breast
|
| That young man never has known.»
|
| «How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart
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| Where we were want to walk
|
| The fairest flower that e’er I saw
|
| Has withered to a stalk.»
|
| «A stalk has withered and dead, sweetheart
|
| The flower will never return
|
| And since I’ve lost my own true love
|
| What can I do but yearn.»
|
| «When will we meet again, sweetheart
|
| When will we meet again?»
|
| «When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees
|
| Are green and spring up again.» |