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The Unquiet Grave

by Anonymous, 1400


'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 mourn 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 on 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 wither'd to a stalk.


'The stalk is wither'd dry, my love,
  So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
  Till God calls you away.'


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