He turnd his face unto the wall,

As deadlye pangs he fell in: Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, Adieu to Barbara Allen.

As fhe was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did feem to faye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.

She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:

Laye down, laye down the corps, the fayd,
may look upon him.

That I

With scornful eye fhe looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;

$5

40

45

Whilft all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.

When he was dead, and laid in grave,

Her harte was ftruck with forrowe,

O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I fhall dye to-morrowe.

Hard harted creature him to flight,

Who loved me so dearlye:

O that I had beene more kind to him,

When he was alive and neare me!

She

She, on her death-bed as fhe laye,

Beg'd to be buried by him ;
And fore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.

Farewell, fhe fayd, ye virgins all,
And fhun the fault I fell in :
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.

60

VI.

SWEET WILLIAM's GHOST.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

From Allan Ramfay's Tea-Table mifcellany. The concluding ftanza of this piece feems modern.

'Tis not thy father Philip;

Nor yet thy brother John: But tis thy true love Willie

From Scotland new come home,

O fweet 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'fe nevir get,
'Of me fhalt nevir win,'

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

If I fhould come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:

And fhould I kifs thy rofy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.

O fweet Margret, O dear Margret,

I pray thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.

My bones are buried in a kirk yard

Afar beyond the fea,

And it is but my fprite, Margret,

That's speaking now to thee.

She fretched out her lilly-white hand,

As for to do her best:

Hae there your faith and troth, Willie,

35

Is there are any room at your head, Willie?

45

Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your fide, 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 fide, Margret,

My coffin is made fo meet.

Then up and crew the red red cock,

And up then crew the gray:

50

Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,

55

No

No more the ghost to Margret faid,

But, with a grievous grone,

Evanish'd in a cloud of mift,
And left her all alone.

O ftay, my only true love, stay,
The conftant Margret cried:

Wan grew her cheeks, fhe clos'd her een,
Stretch'd her faft limbs, and died.

60

VII.

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.

T was in and about the Martinmas time,

I wer a
IT

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

He fent his man down throw the towne,

To the plaice wher fhe was dwellan
O haste and cum to my maister deare,

:

O hooly,