It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the greene leaves we a fallan,
That Sir John Grehme o' the west contrye
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
'O haste and **** to my maister deare,
Gin ye bin Barbara Allan.'

O hooly, hooly raise she up,
To the plaice wher he was lyand;
And whan she drew the curtain by,
'Young man, I think ye're dyand.'

'O its I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And its a' for Barbara Allan.'
'O the better for me ye'se never be,
Though your harts blude wer spillan.

'Remember ye nat in the tavern, sir,
Whan ye the cups wer fillan,
How ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?'

He turn'd his face unto the wa',
And death was with him dealan;
'Adiew! adiew! my dear friends a',
Be kind to Barbara Allan.'

Then hooly, hooly raise she up,
And hooly, hooly left him;
And sighan said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She had not gane a mile but twa,
Whan she heard the deid-bell knellan;
And everye jow the deid-bell geid,
Cried, 'Wae to Barbara Allan!'

'O mither, mither, mak my bed,
O make it saft and narrow;
Since my love dy'd for me to-day,
Ise die for him to-morrowe.'