John Barleycorn

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 chearful 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 ty'd 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 turn'd 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!

There were three men come out of the West
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die.
They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in
Threw clods all on his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead.

They let him lie for a very long time
Till the rains from heaven did fall
Then little Sir John sprung up his head
And so amazed them all
They let him lie till Midsummer
Till he looked both pale and wan
Then little Sir John he grew a long beard
And so become a man.

They hired men with their scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee.
They've bound him and tied him around the waist
Served him most barb'rously.
They hired men with their sharp pitch-forks
To prick him to the heart
But the drover he served him worse than that
For he's bound him to a cart.

They've rolled him around and around the field
Till they came unto a barn
And there they made a solemn mow
Of poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with their crab-tree sticks
To strip him skin from bone
But the miller, he served him worse than that,
For he's ground him between two stones.

Here's Little sir John in the nut-brown bowl
And brandy in the glass
But Little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl's
The strongest man at last
For the huntsman he can't hunt the fox
Nor so loudly blow his horn
And the tinker, he can't mend kettles or pots
Without a little Barleycorn.