O, Cold Is The Wind- Day (NL) 1929 Karpeles
[My title, replacing the generic title. From: Folk Songs from Newfoundland; Karpeles, 1934. Notes Follow.
R. Matteson 2015]
The Unquiet Grave
CHILD, 78; BRONSON II (43 tunes); BROWN N. Carolina II, 24 (no tune); DAVIS Virginia, 22 (no tune); FLANDERS New England II, p. 184; 2 tunes are given in GREENLEAF Newfoundland, 10, and 2 in PEACOCK Newfoundland, p. 410. (COFFIN). See also a note by Ruth Harvey (J.E.F.D.S.S. iv, p. 49) on the supernatural implications of these and other analogous ballads.
The last two lines seem to have little connection with the rest of the ballad, but a version from Buchan's MSS. (CHrr.n D) throws some light on their obscurity. Here the dead man responds as follows to his lover's laments:
Lament nae mair for me, my love,
The powers we must obey;
But hoist up one sail to the wind,
Your ship must sail away.
In CHILD A, noted in Sussex, the last stanza is:
The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.
In a version noted by Cecil Sharp in Somerset the last two lines are:
And since I lost my own sweetheart
What can I do but mourn.
[O, Cold is the Wind]- sung by Mrs. Maggie Day at Fortune Harbour, 1st October 1929.
O cold is the wind do blow, sweetheart,
And so pure is the drops of rain.
I did never have only one true love
And in green grove he lies slain.
Sure I'll do as much for my true love
As any one that may,
I'll sit, I'll mourn all on his grave
For a twelve month and a day.
The twelve month and one day expired
And the ghost began to speak:
O what is this is on my grave
And will not let me sleep?
O once I was your own true love,
I do sit on your grave.
One kiss all from your cold clay lips,
That is all I do a-crave.
O if you're to kiss my cold clay lips,
Your life won't last you long;
And if you're to kiss my cold clay lips,
My breath smells heavy strong.
'Tis down in garden green, sweetheart,
Where you and I had walked,
The nicest flower that ever I saw
Was withered from the stalk.
The stalk has withered dry, sweetheart,
And will not grow no more,
We'll hoist our sails before the main
And our ship must bore away.