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!
