It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Græme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

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

O hooly, hooly rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by,
'Young man, I think you 're dying.'

'O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And 't is a' for Barbara Allan:'
'O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.

'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,
'When ye was in the tavern a drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?'

He turnd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.'

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

She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell geid,
It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan!

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

Nay, smile not at my sullen brows; 
Alas! I cannot smile again: 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang ev'n thou must fail to soothe? 

It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 
That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most: 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see: 
To me no pleasure beauty brings; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 
That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

What Exile from himself can flee? 
To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 
The blight of life — the demon thought. 

Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake; 
Oh! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake! 

Through many a clime 't is mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst; 
And all my solace is to know, 
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 

What is that worst? Nay do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear; 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.