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　　John Barleycorn: A Ballad

　　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! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns