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For death is printed on his face,

And ore his hart is stealin: Then haste away to comfort him, 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;

And all she sayd, when there she came,
'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

you

death-bed 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:

'Laye down, laye down the corps,' she sayd, That I may look upon him.'

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:

O that I had beene more kind to him,

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.'

**

÷

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VI.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

From Allan Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscellany.' The concluding stanza of this piece seems modern.

THERE came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous grone,

he tirled at the pin; But answer made she none.

'Is this my father Philip?

Or is 't my brother John?

Or is 't my true love Willie,

From Scotland new come home?'

"Tis not thy father Philip;

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Nor yet thy brother John:

But tis thy true love Willie

From Scotland new come home.

O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
[Of me shalt nevir win,]

Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower,

I am no earthly man:

And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,

Thy days will not be lang.

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O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,

I

pray

thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.'

"Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,
[Of me shalt nevir win,]

Till thou take me to yon kirk yard,
And wed me with a ring.'

My bones are buried in a kirk yard
Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my sprite, Margret,
That's speaking now to thee.'

She stretched out her lilly-white hand,
As for to do her best:

'Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,
God send your soul good rest.'

Now she has kilted her robes of green,

A piece below her knee:

And a' the live-lang winter night

The dead corps followed shee.

Is there any room at your head, Willie?
Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's nae room at my head, Margret,

There's nae room at my feet,

There's no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin is made so meet.'

Then up

and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray:

'Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That [I] were gane away.'

No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous grone,
Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.

'O stay, my only true love, stay,'

The constant Margret cried:

Wan grew her checks, she clos'd her een,
Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.

VII.

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA

ALLAN.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy. It was in and about the Martinmas time,

When the greene leaves wer a fallan; That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye, Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
'O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin
ye bin Barbara Allan.'

O hooly, hooly raise she up,

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To the plaice wher he was lyan;

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