I am stretched on your grave, and you'll find me

there always, If I had bounty of your arms I

should never leave you. Little apple, my

beloved, it is time for me to lay with you, There

is the cold smell of clay on me, the tan of the

sun and the wind. There is a lock on my heart,

which is filled with love for you, And melancholy

beneath it as black as the sloes. If anything

happens to me, and death overthrows me, I

shall become a fairy wind-gust down on the

meadows before you. When my family thinks

that I'm in my bed, It is on your grave I am

stretched from night till morning, Telling my

distress and lamenting bitterly For my quiet

lovely girl who was bethrothed to me as a child.

Do you remember the nights when you and I

were under the blackthorn tree, And the night

freezing? A hundred praises to gods that we did

nothing harmful, And your crown of maidenhood

is a tree of light before you! The priests and the

monks every day were angry with me For being

in love with you, young girl, when you are dead.

I would be a shelter from the wind for you And

protection from the rain for you; And oh, keen

sorrow to my heart that you are under the

earth!