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S it fell out on a long fummer's day Two lovers they fat on a hill ; They fat together that long fummer's day, And could not talk their fill.

I fee no harm by you, Margaret,
And you fee none by mee
Before to-morrow at eight o'clock
A rich wedding you fhall fee.

Fair Margaret fate in her bower-window,
A combing of her hair;

She spyed sweet William and his bride,
As they were a riding near.

Down the layd her ivory combe,

And up

fhe bound her hair ;

She went her way forth of the bower,

But never more came there.

When day was gone, and night was come,

And all men fast asleep,

There came the spirit of fair Marg❜ret,

And stood at Williams feet.

God give you joy, you lovers true,

In bride-bed fast asleep;

Lo! I am going to my green-grafs grave,
And I'm in my winding-sheet.

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When day was come, and night was gone,
And all men wak'd from sleep,

Sweet William to his lady fayd,

My dear, I have cause to weep.

I dreamt a dream, my dear lady',
Such dreames are never good.

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I dreamt my bower was full of red swine,
And my bride-bed full of blood.

Such dreams, fuch dreams, my honoured Sir,
They never do prove good;

To dream thy bower was full of 'red' fwine, 35
And thy bride-bed full of blood,

He called up his merry men all,

By one, by two, and by three;

Saying, I'll away to fair Marg'rets bower,

By the leave of my lady.

And when he came to fair Margʼrets bower,

He knocked at the ring;

So ready were her seven brethrèn

To let fweet William in.

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For I made no vow to your fifter dear,

By day, nor yet by night.

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Pray tell me then how much you'll deal,
Of your white bread and your wine;
So much as is dealt at her funeral to-day,
To-morrow shall be dealt at mine.

Fair Margaret dyed to-day, to-day,
Sweet William dyed the morrow:

Fair Margaret dyed for pure true love,
Sweet William dyed for forrow.

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They grew as high as the church-top,

Till they could grow no higher;

And there they grew in a true lovers knot,
Made all the folke admire.

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Given, with fome corrections, from an old printed copy in the editor's poffeffion, intitled "Barbara Allen's cruelty, or "the young man's tragedy."

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N Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,

Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merrye month of may,

When greene buds they were fwellin,

Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.

He fent his man unto her then,

To the town, where thee was dwellin; You must come to my mafter deare,

Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

For death is printed on his face,

And ore his hart is ftealin : Then hafte away to comfort him, O lovelye Barbara Allen.

Though death be printed on his face,

And ore his harte is stealin, Yet little better shall he bee, For bonny Barbara Allen.

So flowly, flowly, fhe came up,

And flowly fhe came nye him;

And all fhe fayd, when there fhe came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.

He turnd his face unto her strait,

With deadlye forrow fighing; O lovely maid, come pity mee, Ime on my death-bed lying.

If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin :
I cannot keep you from your death;

Farewell, fayd Barbara Allen.

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