John Barleycorn: A Ballad
THERE was three kings into the east,Three kings both great and high,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough’d him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surpris’d them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,And he grew thick and strong;His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.
The sober Autumn enter’d mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow’d he began to fail.
His colour sicken’d more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.
They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;Then tied him fast upon a cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turned him o’er and o’er.
They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim;They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,To work him farther woe;And still, as signs of life appear’d,They toss’d him to and fro.
They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all,For he crush’d him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart’s blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,’Twill make your courage rise.
’Twill make a man forget his woe;’Twill heighten all his joy;’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe’er fail in old Scotland!
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