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It was in the merry month of May
When all the green buds were swelling,
A one man on his death-bed lay
For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his servant to the town
He sent him to her dwelling
"My master’s sick, and he says for you
If you are Barbara Allen."

Oh, she walked in, oh, she walked in
And place her eyes upon him,
And all she said when she got there
Was "My true love, you're dying."

"O Mother, come and make my bed
O make it soft and narrow,
For true love has died to-day
And I shall die to-morrow."

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