Coll. by M.C. Parler
Mrs. Alma Childress Evansville, Ark. Nov. 6, 1959
Reel 319, Item 3
'Twas early in the month of May,
Young buds they were a-swelling,
Sweet William on his death-bed lay,
For the love of Barbara Allen,
He sent his servant to the town Where Barbara she was dwelling,
My master's sick and sends for you If your name be Barbara Allen.
So slowly slowly she got up,
And slowly she went to him,
When she got there, the words she said,
Was, Man, I think you're dying.
Yes, I am sick and I’m very sick,
And death near me is dwelling,
And none the better will I ever be While your name be Barbara Allen.
Oh, yes, you’re sick and you're very sick,
And death near you is dwelling,
And none the better will you ever be,
For you'll never get Barbara Allen.
He turned his pale face to the wall,
And bursted out to crying,
Farewell, farewell, to the ladies all around, Be kind to Barbara Allen.
She hadn't got more than a mile from town, When she heard his death-bell tolling,
And every toll that the old bell rang Was a woe to Barbara Allen.
O Mamma, Mamma, go and fix my bed,
Fix it both long and narrow,
Sweet William died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.
Sweet William died on Saturday,
And Barbara died on Sunday,
Her Mamma died for the love of them both,
She died on Monday morning.
-more-Reel 319, Item 3 Continued
Sweet William in the old churchyard was laid,
And Barbara in the new one,
And from his grave grew a velvet rose,
From hers there grew a briar.
They grew and grew to the church-steeple top Till they could not grow any higher,
There they twisted and twined in a true-loveknot, The rose grew around the briar.
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