Subject: Lyr Add: BONNY BARBARA ALLAN
From:
Richie
Date: 25 Apr 15 - 08:57 PM
Below is "Scotch" version Child Aa: Bonny Barbara Allan (Ramsay, 1740) followed by Child Ab: Sir John Grehme and Barbara Allan (Percy 1765). Note the footnote by Percy, who printed a version with "Young man, I think ye're lyan'."
From: The tea-table miscellany: or, A collection of choice songs, Scots and ... By Allan Ramsay
Bonny Barbara Allan.
I. IT was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Grœme in the west country
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
II. He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling,
O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan.
III. 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.
IV. O its I'm sick, and very very sick,
And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan.
O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho' your heart's blood were a spilling.
V. 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.
VI. He turn'd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing;
Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan.
VII. And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him;
And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.
VIII. 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.
IX. 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.
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From: Percy's Reliques, 1765, III, p. 131 (Child Ab)
SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN.
A SCOTTISH BALLAD.
Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the greene leaves wer a fallan:
That Sir John Grehme o' the west countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan:
O haste and cum to my maister deare,
Gin ye bin Barbara Allan.
O hooly, hooly raise she up,
To the plaice wher he was lyan;
And whan she drew the curtain by,
Young man, I think ye're dyan'. [1]
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 mak it saft and narrow:
Since my love died for me to day,
Ise die for him to morrowe.
Footnote:
1. An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes dyan' and lyan' ought to be transposed; as the taunt, 'Young man, I think ye're lyan',' would be very characteristical.
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