Rose's Grey

Lady Grey,
Lady Gray,
What might it take to make you stay?

Your garden blooms in summertime,
but wilts and dies when comes the ice.

Lady Grey,
My Lady Gray,
What might it take to make it rain?

For from your touch are roses born,
and from your blood is poisoned thorn.

and Lady Gray,
Sweet Lady Gray,
Does beg the ghost to make you pray?

For with the winter comes the cold,
and off the Lady Gray does go.
And with the cold there comes the wilt,
and dear, my Lady Grey is killed.