Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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John Barleycorn: A Ballad

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      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!