Barbra Allen- Whittaker (MO) c.1877 Randolph D
[My title. From Ozark Folksongs; Randolph, I, 1946, p. 129-31 (D). Randolph's notes include this curious comment, "There are several commercial records of this ballad, of which those by Al Craver (Columbia 15126-D) and Vernon Dalhart (Brunswick 117) are probably the best." It should be noted that Dalhart and Craver are the same person!! Craver is one of the many pseudonyms Dalhart used to record for different companies.
Randolph who frequently uses apostrophes for "the" (th')-- doesn't use one for Barbra.
R. Matteson 2015]
D. Barbra Allen. Sung by Mrs. Judy Jane Whittaker, Anderson, Mo., May 12, 1928. Mrs. Whittaker learned the song from her mother about 1877. The tune is the same as that of Miss Thornton's version.
'Twas in the merry month of May,
The flowers was all a-bloomin'.
Dear Willie on his death bed lay,
For the love of Barbra Allen.
He sent his servant to the town
Where this fair maid was dwellin',
My master's sick an' sent for thee,
If your name be Barbra Allen.
Slowly, slowly she rose up,
An' went where he was lyin',
An' all she said when she got there
Was young man, I think you're a-dyin'.
Are you so sick, so very sick,
Oh who are those that grieve you?
Oh speak an' let the worst be known,
Oh speak an' I'll relieve you.
Oh I am sick, an' very sick,
Death may be in my dwellin',
But no the better will I ever be
If I don't get Barbra Allen.
You may be sick an' very sick,
Death may be in your dwellin',
But no the better you'll ever be,
For you won't get Barbra Allen.
Do you recollect the other day
When you was at the tavern?
Your drank your health to the ladies all,
An' slighted Barbra Allen.
Yes, I recollect the other day
When I was at the tavern,
I drank my health to the ladies all,
But yet loved Barbra Allen.
He turned his pale face to the wall,
An' his back to Barbra Allen,
Adieu, adieu to my dear friends all,
But woe to Barbra Allen.
They hadn't got four miles from town,
She heard the death bells tollin',
An' every time they seemed to say
Hard-hearted Barbra Allen !
Oh mother dear, come find my head,
For pride has over-came me,
Oh brother dear, come carry me home,
For death has come upon me.
Oh mother dear, make me a bed,
An' make it soft an' narrow,
My true love died for me today,
An' I'll die for him tomorrow.
They buried sweet William in one church yard,
An' Barbra in another,
An' from her breast there sprung a rose,
An' from his feet a brier.
They grew an' grew to the top of the church,
They could not grow no higher,
They lapped an' they tied in a true love knot,
The rose bush an' the brier.