In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry Well-a-day!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
When the green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen

He sent his men down to her then,
To the town where she was dwelling:
'O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allen.'

So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtains by-
'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'

'O it's I am sick and very very sick,
And 'tis a' for Barbara Allen.' -
'O the better for me ye'se never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a-spillin'!.

'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,
'When the red wine ye were fillin',
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?'

He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin':
'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!'

And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

As she was walkin o'er the fields
She heard the dead-bell knellin',
And every jow that the dead-bell geid,
Cried, 'Woe to Barbara Allen!'

'O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me today,
I'll die for him to-morrow.'

'Farewell', she said, 'ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforward take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.'