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They grew till they grew unto the church top,
And then they could grow no higher ; And there they tyed in a true lovers knot,
Which made all the people admire.
Given, with some corrections, from an old black letter copy, intitled, “ Barbara Allen's cruelty, or the young “ man's tragedy."
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of May,
greene buds they were swellin,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town where shee was dwellin;
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin :
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him ;
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing ; O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my deth-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin; I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in : Adieu! adieu ! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin; And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming :
With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin ; Whilst all her friends cryd out amaine;
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe, O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to-morrowe.
Hard-harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
When he was alive and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg’d to be buried by him ; And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in : Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.
SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.
A SCOTTISH BALLAD.
From Allan Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany. The con
cluding stanza of this piece seems modern.
HERE came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous grone,
But answer made she none.
O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
pray thee speak to mee:
As I gave it to thee.