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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. | |
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| They took a plough and plough’d him down, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
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| 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, | 25 |
| And cut him by the knee; | |
| Then tied him fast upon a cart, | |
| Like a rogue for forgerie. | |
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| They laid him down upon his back, | |
| And cudgell’d him full sore; | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| 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. | |
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| And they hae taen his very heart’s blood, | 45 |
| 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; | 50 |
| For if you do but taste his blood, | |
| ’Twill make your courage rise. | |
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| ’Twill make a man forget his woe; | |
| ’Twill heighten all his joy; | |
| ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, | 55 |
| Tho’ the tear were in her eye. | |
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| Then let us toast John Barleycorn, | |
| Each man a glass in hand; | |
| And may his great posterity | |
| Ne’er fail in old Scotland! | 60 |
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