She, on her death-bed as fhe laye,

Beg'd to be buried by him;
And fore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.

Farewell, the fayd, ye virgins all,
And fhun the fault I fell in :
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.

VI.

SWEET WILLIAM's GHOST.

A SCOTTISH Ballad.

From Allan Ramfay's Tea-Table mifcellany. The concluding fianza of this piece feems modern.

HERE came a ghoft to Margaret's door,

TH

With many a grievous grone,

And ay he tirled at the pin ;

But anfwer made she none.

Is this my father Philip?

Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true love Willie,

From Scotland 'new come home?

Tis

'Tis not thy father Philip;

Nor yet thy brother John:

But tis thy true love Willie

From Scotland new come home,

fweet Margret! O dear Margret!

I pray thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,

As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me fhalt nevir win,'

Till that thou come within my bower,

And kiss my cheek and chin.

If I fhould come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:

And should I kifs thy rofy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.

10

15

20

Is there are any room at your head, Willie?

45

Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your fide, Willie,

Wherein that I may creep?

There's nae room at my head, Margret,

There's nae room at my feet,

There's no room at my fide, Margret,

My coffin is made fo meet.

up and crew the red red cock,

Then

And up

then crew the gray:

Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,

That I' were gane away.
K

VOL. III.

50

55

No

No more the ghost to Margret faid,

But, with a grievous grone,
Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.

O ftay, my only true love, stay,
The conftant Margret cried :

Wan grew her cheeks, fhe clos'd her een,
Stretch'd her faft limbs, and died.

60

SIR JOHN GREHME AND BARBARA ALLAN. A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy.

'T was in and about the Martinmas time,

I leaves a

That Sir John Grehme o' the weft countrye,
Fell in luve wi' Barbara Allan.

He fent his man down throw the towne,
To the plaice wher she was dwellan :

O hafte and cum to my maister deare,

5

O hooly,

O hooly, hooly raise she up,
To the plaice wher he was lyan;
And whan fhe drew the curtain by,

Young man, I think ye're dyan

O its I'm fick, and very very fick,
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, fir,

Whan ye the cups wer fillan;

How ye made the healths gae round and round,
And flighted 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.

An ingenious friend thinks the rhymes Dyand and Lyand ought to be tranfpofed; as the taunt Young man, I think ye're lyand, would be very characteristical.

K 2

O mither,