In Scarlet town,where I was born,There was a fair maid dwellin',Made every youth cry,Well away!

Her name was Barbara Allen.

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

He sent his man unto her then,To the town where she was dwellin';

"You must come to my master dear,Gif your name be Barbara Allen.

"For death is printed on his face,And o'er his heart is stealin':

Then haste away to comfort him,O lovely Barbara Allen."

Though death be printed on his face And o'er his heart is stealin',Yet little better shall he be For bonny Barbara Allen.

So slowly,slowly,she came up,And slowly she came nigh him;

And all she said,when there she came,"Young man,I think y'are dying."

He turned his face unto her straight,With deadly sorrow sighing;

"O lovely maid,come pity me,I'm on my deathbed lying."--

"If on your deathbed you do lie,What needs the tale you are tellin';

I cannot keep you from your death:

Farewell,"said Barbara Allen.

He turned his face unto the wall,As deadly pangs he fell in:

"Adieu!adieu!adieu to you all!

Adieu to Barbara Allen!"

As she was walking o'er the fields,She heard the bell a knellin';

And every stroke did seem to say,--