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L-d, Ise hae sportin by an' by,

For my gow'd guinea ; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

*Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare ;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ;
But penny worths again is fair,

When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

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Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a folemn oath,

John Barleycorn should dię.

II.
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.

III.
But the chearful Spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;

* This is partly composed on the plan of an old song koown by the same name.

John Barleycorn got up again,
And fore surprised them all.

IV.
The fultry suns of Summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him

wrong.

V.
The fober Autumn enter'd mild,

When he grew wan and pale ;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

VI.
His colour ficken'd more and more,
He faded into

age ;
And then his enemies began
To Thew their deadly rage.

VII. They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;
They ty'd him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.
They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgeld him full fore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

IX.
They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the bring ;

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him link or swim,

X.
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.

XI,
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones ;
But a Miller us'd him worst of all,
He crush'd him 'tween two stones,

XII.
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,

XIII. John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV. 'Twill make a man forget his woe;

"Twill heighten all his joy : 'Twill make the widow's heart to fing,

Tho' the tear was in her eye.

XV. Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand; And may his great pofterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

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