'Tis of a lovely maiden the tale is told,
Her eyes were like the violet, her hair was of gold.
This tale of cruel beauty would melt the stones,
The heart-rending story of Barbara Jones.

‘Twas on a Sunday morning at half past eight,
They met the very first time, beside the church gate,
He asked if he might court her in manly tones,
But she turned from him coldly, did Barbara Jones.

‘Twas on a Monday morning at half past eight,
He begged her for to wed him, beside the church gate,
But she would only mock him in scornful tones,
And left him there a weeping, did Barbara Jones.

Hear now the tragic sorrow and cruel fate,
They met and, for the third time, beside the church gate,
So ends this tragic story in tears and groans
For she met him,
And she married him! 
Did Barbara Jones.