john barleycorn: a ballad

    there was three kings into the east,

    three kings both great and high,

    and they hae sworn a solemn oath

    john barleycorn should die.

    they took a plough and plough'd him down,

    put clods upon his head,

    and they hae sworn a solemn oath

    john 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 head

    show'd he began to fail.

    his colour sicken'd more and more,

    he faded into age;

    and then his enemies began

    to 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 pit

    with 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 posterity

    ne'er fail in old scotland!