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They took a plough and plough'd him down,
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,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale ;
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
To shew their deadly rage,
They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee; Then tyd him fast upon a cart,
a Like a rogue for forgerie,
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
And turn'd him o'er and o'er,
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,
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
For he crush'u him between two stones.
And they hae ta’en 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 Barłeycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage
'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!