"Cold blows the wind tonight my love
Cold are the drops of rain
I only had but one 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 the day beingg 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 truelove
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 my truelove,
So will our hearts decay.
So make yoursel content my love,
‘Til death calls you away."
(Ballata tradizionale inglese del tardo medioevo)