Now she has kilted her robes of green, A piece below her knee: And a' the live-lang winter night The dead corps followed shee.
Is there any room at your head, Willie? 45 Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep?
There's nae room at my head, Margret, There's nae room at my feet, 50 There's no room at my side, Margret, My coffin is made so meet.
Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the gray: Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret, 55 That 'I' were gane away.
[No more the ghost to Margret said, But, with a grievous grone, Evanish'd in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. 60
O stay, my only true love, stay, The constant Margret cried: Wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een, Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.]
Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.
[Pepys, in Jan. 1665-1666, heard Mrs. Knipp, the actress, sing "her little Scotch song of _Barbery Allen_" at Lord Brouncker's, and he was "in perfect pleasure to hear her sing" it. It was first printed in Ramsay's _Tea-Table Miscellany_ (ii. 171).
"I remember," says Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, "that the peasantry of Annandale sang many more verses of this ballad than have appeared in print, but they were of no merit, containing numerous magnificent offers from the lover to his mistress, and amongst others some ships in sight, which may strengthen the belief that this song was composed near the shores of the Solway."--_Addit._ _Illustrations to Stenhouse._]
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, 5 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; 10 And whan she drew the curtain by, Young man, I think ye're dyan.[322]
O its I'm sick, and very very sick, And its a' for Barbara Allan. O the better for me ye'se never be, 15 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? 20