The Unquiet Grave - Barbara Dickson

The wind doth blow today, my love

A few small drops of rain;

I never had but one true love

In cold grave he is lain

I’d do as much for my true love

As any young girl may;

I’d sit and mourn all on his grave

For twelve month and a day

The twelve months and a day were up

A voice spoke from the deep

Oh who is this sits on my grave

And will not let me sleep?

T' is I, t’is I, thy own true love

That weeps upon on thy grave

Until I have one kiss from your clay-cold lips

No comfort will I have

My lips are cold as clay, my love

My breath is earthly strong;

And had you one kiss from my clay-cold lips

Your time would not be long:

Down in yonder garden green

Love, where we used to walk

The sweetest rose that ever bloomed

Is withered to the stalk

The stalk is withered dry, my love

So will our hearts decay

So make yourself content my love

Till death calls you away

So make yourself content my love

Till death calls you away