“Young man, I think you are a dying.”
He turnd his face unto her then:
“If you be Barbara Allen,
My dear,” said he, “come pitty me,
As on my death-bed I am lying.”
“If on your death-bed you be lying,
What is that to Barbara Allen?
I cannot keep you from your death;
So farewell,” said Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,