Barbara Allan


H.J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., N. Y.

Barbara Allan.

It was in and about Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a-fallin’,
That Sir John Graham, in the west countrie,
Fell in love wi’ Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwallin’,
Oh, haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan!

Oh, hooly, hooly, rase she up,
To the place where she was lyin’,
And when she drew the curtain by,
Young man, I think ye’re dyin’.

It’s oh, I’m sick, I’m very, very sick,
And it’s a’ for Barbara Allan.
Oh, the better for me ye’se never be,
Though your heart’s blude were a-spillin’.

Oh, dinna ye mind, young man, she said,
When ye was in the tavern a-drinkin’,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slichtit Barbara Allan?

He turned his face unto the wa’,
And death was with him dealin’:
Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a’,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.

And slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighin’, said she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She hadna gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the deid-bell ringin’,
And every jow that the deid-bell gied,
It cried, Woe to Barbara Allan.

Oh, mother, mother, mak’ my bed,
And make it saft and narrow,
Since my love died for me to-day,
I’ll die for him to-morrow.

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