John BarleycornA Ballad.There were 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 ha’e 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 beading 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 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.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-- He crush’d him ’tween the stones.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.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!