John Barleycorn

Oh there were three men came out of the west

Their fortunes for to try,

And these three men made a solemn vow:

John Barleycorn should die.

They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in,

Throwed clods upon his head.

Then these three men made a solemn vow:

John Barleycorn was dead.

They let him lie for a very long time

Till the rain from heaven did fall.

Then little Sir John he raised up his head

And he soon amazed them all.

They let him lie till the long midsummer

Till he looked both pale and wan.

Then little Sir John growed a long, long beard

And so became a man.

They hired men with the scythes so sharp

To cut him off down by the knee.

They rolled him and tied him around by the waist,

Served him most barbarously.

They hired men with the sharp pitchforks

Who pierced him to the heart.

But the loader, he served him far worse than that

For he bound him to the cart.

They rode him around and around the field

Till they came into a barn,

And there they made a solemn mow

Of poor John Barleycorn.

They hired men with the crab-tree sticks

Who cut him skin from bone

But the miller, he served him far worse than that

For he ground him between two stones.

Here's little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl

And brandy in a glass.

And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl

Proved the stronger man at last.

For the hunter, he can't hunt the fox

Nor so loudly blow his horn,

And the tinker, he can't mend his kettles or his pots

Without a little bit of John Barleycorn.