Scritta da: Emanuele Caccia
The Unquiet Grave
Cold blows the wind tonight my love
Cold are the drops of rain
I only had one but true-love,
And in greenwood she lies slain.
I'll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn upon her grave
For twelve months and a day.
The twelve months and a day veing o'er,
A voice cries from the deep;
"Who is it weeps upon my grave,
And will not let me sleep? "
"'Tis I, 'tis I, your own true-love
Who sits upon your grave,
'Til I have one kiss from your cold lips,
No comfort will I have. "
"My lips are cold as clay my love,
My breath is earthy strong,
And if you had one kiss from my cold lips,
Then your time would not be long.
O down in yonder shady grove,
Love, where we used to walk,
The fairest flower that groweth there
Is withered to a stalk.
And the stalk is withered dry true-love
So will our hearts decay.
So make yourself content my love,
"Til Death calls you away. "
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