"Barbara Allan"
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Græme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his men down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
“O haste and come to my master dear,
If ye be Barbara Allan.”
O slowly, slowly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
“Young man, I think you ’re dying.”
“O it ’s I ’m sick, and very, very sick,
And ’t is all for Barbara Allan:”
“O the better for me ye ’s never be,
Tho your heart’s blood were a spilling.
“O don't ye mind, young man,” said she,
“When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?”
He turnd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.”
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said, she coud not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gone a mile but two,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every stroke that the dead-bell gave,
It cry’d, Woe to Barbara Allan!
“O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it soft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I ’ll die for him to-morrow.”
I like British Lit.
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Græme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his men down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
“O haste and come to my master dear,
If ye be Barbara Allan.”
O slowly, slowly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
“Young man, I think you ’re dying.”
“O it ’s I ’m sick, and very, very sick,
And ’t is all for Barbara Allan:”
“O the better for me ye ’s never be,
Tho your heart’s blood were a spilling.
“O don't ye mind, young man,” said she,
“When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?”
He turnd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.”
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said, she coud not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gone a mile but two,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every stroke that the dead-bell gave,
It cry’d, Woe to Barbara Allan!
“O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it soft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I ’ll die for him to-morrow.”
I like British Lit.