by anonymous since it is a traditional English Ballad.
It was about the Martinmas time,
When thick the leaves were falling,
That Sir John Grame of the West Countrie,
Sent word for Barbara Allan.
His men have gone through Scarlet Town,
To the place where she was dwelling,
With: 'Haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan!
'There's sorrow printed on his face,
And death is o'er him stealing.
And he is sick, and very sick,
For love of Barbara Allan.'
'If sorrow's printed on his face
And death is o'er him stealing,
Then little better shall he be
For a sigh of Barbara Allan.'
So hooly, hooly raise she up,
And came where he was lying.
She drew the curtain by, and said:
'Young man, I think you're dying.'
'O, it's I am sick, and very sick,
And it's all for Barbara Allan.'
'O, the better for her ye ne'er shall be,
Though your heart's blood were spilling.
'Do not you mind, young man,' said she,
'how, with the townsfolk melling,
Ye made the healths go round and round
And slighted Barbara Allan?
'Gin now on your sickbed you lie,
And death with you be dealing;
Why should I pity on you take?
Farewell!' said Barbara Allan.
He turned his face unto the wall,
Since she of hope had reft him,
Then hooly, hooly, raise she up
And to his sorrow left him.
She had not gone of miles but two
When she heard the dead bell ringing,
And every jow the dead bell gave
Cried: 'Woe to Barbara Allan!'
'O, mother, mother, make my bed,
O, make it soft and narrow,
Since my love died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.'