Hutch, I have the Gryphon version. It's set to a tune known in the traditional folk world as "The Star of the County Down" (Irish variant) or Dives and Lazarus (English variant from a Child ballad about the biblical rich man and the beggar). R. Vaughan Williams wrote a theme and variations on Dives and Lazarus for chamber ensemble that's quite beautiful.

The version I've been singing comes from the Hammond-Gardiner collection; they collected it with the tune of Dives and Lazarus (or pretty damn close) somewhere in rural England; Bronson has an American version set to this tune, too. Many of the songs collected by Hammond and Gardiner were issued in several paperbacks edited by Frank Purslow for the English Folk Dance and Song Society in the late 60's/early 70's. A whole bunch of the English folk rockers and revivalists got large chunks of their repertoires from this collection. Here's the lyrics I sing (mostly from Hammond/Gardiner, with a bit of folk-processing); it evens out the slightly irregular verse structure Gryphon used, and adds some really grim verses at the end that Gryphon decided to leave out...(A is the A part of the tune, B is the second part) I love a good, spooky English necrophilia song...


THE UNQUIET GRAVE
(from Hammond-Gardiner)

A: Cold blows the wind from my true love
And gently drops the rain.
I never had but one true love
And in greenwood he lies slain.

B: I'll do as much for my true love
As any young girl may.
I'll sit and mourn all on his grave
For a 12-month and a day.

A: When the twelve-month and a day was past
The ghost began to speak:
"Why sittest thou all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?"

B: "There's one thing that I want, sweetheart.
There's one thing that I crave,
And that is a kiss from your lily-white lips
And I'll go from your grave."

A: "My lips, they are as cold as clay.
My breath is earthy strong;
And if you kiss my clay-cold lips,
Your days they won't be long.

B: "Go fetch me water from the desert deep
And blood from out a stone.
Go fetch me milk from a young maid's breast
That a young man ne'er has known."

A: "Oh, down in Cupid's garden, love,
Where you and I would walk,
The fairest flower that ever I saw
Lies withered to a stalk.

B: Oh, the stalk is withered and dry, sweetheart,
And the flower will ne'er return,
And since I've lost my own true love,
What can I do but mourn?"

A: "Oh, don't you see those flames, sweetheart,
Those flames that burn so blue,
Where my poor soul tormented lies
While I bide here with you?

B: And if you were not my own true love,
As I know you well to be,
I would rend you up in pieces small
As the leaves upon a tree!

A: Mourn not for me, my own true love.
Mourn not for me, I pray,
For I must leave you and all the world
And turn down to my grave."

B: "When shall we meet again, sweetheart?
When shall we meet again?"
"When the oaken leaves that fall from the trees
Are green and spring up again."