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 O love thou'rt a dear fleeting pleasure,

The sweetest we mortals here know,

But soon as thy heav'n bright beaming,

O'ercast with the darkness of wo.

As the moon on the oft changing ocean,

Delight's the lone mariner's eye,

Till red rush the storms of the desert,

And dark billows tumble on high.

It was in and about the Martinmas time,

When the green leaves were a-falling,

That Sir John Graeme in the west countrie,

Fell in love with Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down to the town,

To the place where she was dwelling,

O haste and come to my master dear,

Gin ye be Barbara Allan.

O hooly, hooly rose she up,

To the place where he was lying,

And when she drew the curtain, by,

Young man I think you're dying.