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!