BLOWS THE WIND, SWEET-HEART”
C.J.S.
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1
"Cold blows the wind of night, sweet-heart,
Cold are the drops of rain;
The very first love that ever I had,
In green-wood he was slain.
2
"I'll do as much for my true-love
As any fair maiden may;
I'll sit and mourn upon his grave
A twelvemonth and a day."
3
A twelvemonth and a day being up,
The ghost began to speak;
"Why sit you here by my grave-side
From dusk till dawning break?"
4
"O think upon the garden, love,
Where you and I did walk.
The fairest flower that blossomed there
Is withered on its stalk."
5
"What is it that you want of me,
And will not let me sleep?
Your salten tears they trickle down
My winding sheet to steep."
6
"Oh I will now redeem the pledge
The pledge that once I gave;
A kiss from off thy lily white lips
Is all of you I crave."
7
"Cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart,
My breath is earthy strong.
If you do touch my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long."
8
Then through the mould he heaved his head,
And through the herbage green.
There fell a frosted bramble leaf,
It came their lips between.
9
"Now if you were not true in word,
As now I know you be,
I'd tear you as the withered leaves,
Are torn from off the tree.
10
"And well for you that bramble-leaf
Betwixt our lips was flung.
The living to the living hold,
Dead to the dead belong."
No 7 THE SPRIG OF THYME
C.J.S.
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1
In my garden grew plenty of Thyme,
It would flourish by night and by day;
O'er the wall came a lad, he took all that I had,
And stole my thyme away.
2
My garden with heartsease was bright,
The pansy so pied and so gay;
One slipped through the gate, and alas! cruel fate,
My heartsease took away.
3
My garden grew self-heal and balm,
And speedwell that's blue for an hour,
Then blossoms again, O grievous my pain!
I'm plundered of each flower.
4
There grows in my garden the rue,
And Love-lies-a-bleeding droops there,
The hyssop and myrrh, the teazle and burr,
In place of blossoms fair.
5
The willow with branches that weep,
The thorn and the cypress tree,
O why were the seeds of such dolorous weeds,
Thus scattered there by thee?
No 8 ROVING JACK
C.J.S.
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1
Young Jack he was a journey-man
That roved from town to town,
And when he'd done a job of work,
He lightly sat him down.
With his kit upon his shoulder, and
A grafting knife in hand,
He roved the country round about,
A merry journey-man.
