Child Ballads - Additions and Corrections

78. The Unquiet Grave

E

'In Gipsy Tents,' by Francis Hindes Groome, 1880, p. 141, as sung by an old woman.

1	'Cold blows the wind over my true love, Cold blows the drops of rain; I never, never had but one sweet-heart, In the green wood he was slain.
2	'But I'll do as much for my true love As any young girl can do; I'll sit and I'll weep by his grave-side For a twelvemonth and one day.'
3	When the twelvemonth's end and one day was past, This young man he arose: 'What makes you weep by my grave-side For twelve months and one day?'
4	'Only one kiss from your lily cold lips, One kiss is all I crave; Only one kiss from your lily cold lips, And return back to your grave.'
5	'My lip is cold as the clay, sweet-heart, My breath is earthly strong; If you should have a kiss from my cold lip, Your days will not be long.'
6	'Go fetch me a note from the dungeon dark, Cold water from a stone; There I'll sit and weep for my true love For a twelvemonth and one day.
7	'Go dig me a grave both long, wide and deep; I will lay down in it and take one sleep, For a twelvemonth and one day; I will lay down in it and take a long sleep, For a twelvemonth and a day.'

F

'Cold blows the wind,' Shropshire Folk-Lore, edited by Charlotte Sophia Burne, 1883-86, p. 542; "sung by Jane Butler, Edgmond, 1870-80."

	'Cold blows the wind over my true love, Cold blow the drops of rain; I never, never had but one true love, And in Camvile he was slain.
	'I'll do as much for my true love As any young girl may; I'll sit and weep down by his grave For twelve months and one day.
	But when twelve months were come and gone, This young man he arose: 'What makes you weep down by my grave? I can't take my repose.'
	'One kiss, one kiss, of your lily-white lips, One kiss is all I crave; One kiss, one kiss, of your lily-white lips, And return back to your grave.'
	'My lips they are as cold as my clay, My breath is heavy and strong; If thou wast to kiss my lily-white lips, Thy days would not be long.
	'don't you remember the garden-grove Where we was used to walk? Pluck the finest flower of them all, 'Twill wither to a stalk.'
	'Go fetch me a nut from a dungeon deep, And water from a stone, And white milk from a maiden's breast [That babe bare never none].

G

From the singing of a wandering minstrel and story-teller of the parish of Cury, Cornwall. After the last stanza followed "a stormy kind of duet between the maiden and her lover's ghost, who tries to persuade the maid to accompany him to the world of shadows." Hunt, Popular Romances of the West of England, First Series, 1865, p. xvi.

1	'Cold blows the wind to-day, sweetheart, Cold are the drops of rain; The first truelove that ever I had In the green wood he was slam.
2	''T was down in the garden-green, sweetheart, Where you and I did walk; The fairest flower that in the garden grew Is witherd to a stalk.
3	'The stalk will bear no leaves, sweetheart, The flowers will neer return, And since my truelove is dead and gone, What can I do but mourn?'
4	A twelvemonth and a day being gone, The spirit rose and spoke: . . . . . .
5	'My body is clay-cold, sweetheart, My breath smells heavy and strong, And if you kiss my lily-white lips Your time will not be long.'

285 f. Add: Gaspé, Les anciens Canadiens, Québec, 1877, I, 220 ff.; cited by Sébillot, Annuaire des Traditions populaires, 1887, p. 38 ff..

236. A 5, etc. So Nigra, 'La Sposa morta,' p. 122, No 17, D 12: 'Mia buca morta l'a odur di terra, ch'a l'era, viva, di roze e fiur.'

Little-Russian tale, Trudy, II, 416, No 122. A girl who is inconsolable for the death of her mother is advised to hide herself in the church after vespers on Thursday of the first week in Lent, and does so. At midnight the bells ring, and a dead priest performs the service for a congregation all of whom are dead. Among them is the girl's godmother, who bids her begone before her mother remarks her. But the mother has already seen her daughter, and calls out, You here too? Weep no more for me. My coffin and my grave are filled with your tears; wretched it is to bathe in them! (W.W.) After this the mother's behavior is not quite what we should expect. Cf. the tale in Gaspé, just cited.

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