John Barleycorn: A Ballad.

I.

    There were three kings into the east,
        Three kings both great and high;
    And they hae sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn should die.

II.

    They took a plough and plough'd him down,
        Put clods upon his head;
    And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
        John Barleycorn was dead.

III.

    But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
        And show'rs began to fall;
    John Barleycorn got up again,
        And sore surpris'd them all.

IV.

    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.

V.

    The sober autumn enter'd mild,
        When he grew wan and pale;
    His beading joints and drooping head
        Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

    His colour sicken'd more and more,
        He faded into age;
    And then his enemies began
        To show their deadly rage.

VII.

    They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
        And cut him by the knee;
    Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
        Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

    They laid him down upon his back,
        And cudgell'd him full sore;
    They hung him up before the storm.
        And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.

    They filled up a darksome pit
        With water to the brim;
    They heaved in John Barleycorn,
        There let him sink or swim.

X.

    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.

XI.

    They wasted o'er a scorching flame
        The marrow of his bones;
    But a miller us'd him worst of all,
        He crush'd him 'tween the stones.

XII.

    And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
        And drank it round and round;
    And still the more and more they drank,
        Their joy did more abound.

XIII.

    John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
        Of noble enterprise;
    For if you do but taste his blood,
        'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV.

    '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.

XV.

    Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
        Each man a glass in hand;
    And may his great posterity
        Ne'er fail in old Scotland!