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 often 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 trees
Are green and spring up, again.