Joan, that is the version we do. I love the eerie, poetic quality of the lyrics. I've often thought that the somewhat gruesome subject matter actually makes the major key melody sound minor, or at least forlorn.

Oh, cold and bare will his bed be
When grey winter storms sing in the tree
His head's on the turf, at his feet a stone
He'll sleep nor hear the young maiden's mourn
Over his white bones the birds will fly
The wild deer run, the foxes cry
Over his white bones the birds will fly
The wild deer run, the foxes cry

We play it with a lap dulcimer and a nyckelharpa; the haunting echo of all the sympathetic strings on the nyckelharpa works nicely for that melody and subject matter.

We once had an audience member suggest that we don't introduce it as a gruesome song, but rather as a recycling song.

John