I still count the days…

The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
And will not let you 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.

How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart.
Where we were want to walk,
The fairest flower that ever I saw
Has withered to a stalk,

When will we meet again, sweetheart?
When will we meet again?
When the autumn leaves that fall from the trees
Are green and spring up again.


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