Текст: Barbara Dickson. Full Circle. The Unquiet Grave.

The wind doth blow today, my love,
A few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave he is lain.

I'd do as much for my true love
As any young girl may;
I'd sit and mourn all on his grave
For twelve month and a day.

The twelve months and a day were up,
A voice spoke from the deep,
Oh who is this sits on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?

T' is I, t'is I, thy own true love,
That weeps upon on thy grave,
Until I have one kiss from your clay-cold lips
No comfort will I have

My lips are cold as clay, my love,
My breath is earthly strong;
And had you one kiss from my clay-cold lips
Your time would not be long:

Down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The sweetest rose that ever bloomed
Is withered to the stalk.

The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay,
So make yourself content my love,
Till death calls you away.

So make yourself content my love,
Till death calls you away