Cold blows the wind to my true love,
And gently drops the rain;
I never had but one true love
And in greenwood she lies slain,
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 all on her grave,
For a twelve-month and a day,
For a twelve month and a day.
When the twelve-month and one day was past
The ghost began to speak;
"Why sittest here all on my grave
And will not let me sleep,
And will not let me sleep ?"
My breast it is as cold as clay,
My breath is earthly strong;
And if you kiss my cold clay lips
Your days they won't be long,
Your days they won't be long.
O down in yonder grove, sweetheart,
Where we were wont to walk;
The first flower that ever I saw
Is withered to a stalk,
Is withered to a stalk.
The stalk is withered and dead, sweetheart,
And the flower will never return;
And since I lost my own true love
What can I do but mourn,
What can I do but mourn ?
When shall we meet again, sweetheart,
When shall we meet again ?
When the oaken leaves that fall from the trees
Are green and spring up again,
Are green and spring up again.