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They took a plough and plow'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the chearful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again,
And fore 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 fober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale ;
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour ficken'd more and more,
He faded into age ;
To show their deadly rage.
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
Then ty'd 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 turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
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;
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round ;
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 fing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand; And may his great pofterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland !