There are dozens of variations on this ballad, but this version was pulled from 1904's Ballads of Mystery and Miracle and Fyttes of Mirth, compiled by Frank Sidgwick. It's a dark little ditty, so I thought I'd pass it on to you.
The Unquiet Grave
The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave she was lain.
I'll do as much for my true love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
'Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?'
'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.'
'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.'
'Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk;
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is withered to a stalk.'
'The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.'