"John Barleycorn" is an English and Scottish folk song.[1] The song's protagonist is John Barleycorn, a personification of barley and of the beer made from it. In the song, he suffers indignities, attacks, and death that correspond to the various stages of barley cultivation, such as reaping and malting.
The song may have its origins in ancient English or Scottish folklore, with written evidence of the song dating it at least as far back as the Elizabethan era.[2] It is listed as number 164 in the Roud Folk Song Index. The oldest versions are Scottish and include the Scots poem "Quhy Sowld Nocht Allane Honorit Be". In 1782, the Scottish poet Robert Burns published his own version of the song, which influenced subsequent versions.
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There were three men came out of the west Their fortunes for to try And these three men made a solemn vow: John Barleycorn must die
They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in Threw clods upon his head And these three men made a solemn vow: John Barleycorn was dead
They've let him lie for a very long time Till the rains from heaven did fall And little Sir John sprung up his head And so amazed them all
They've let him stand till Midsummer's Day Till he looked both pale and wan And little Sir John's grown a long, long beard And so become a man
They've hired men with the scythes so sharp To cut him off at the knee They've rolled him and tied him by the way Serving him most barbarously You might also like
They've hired men with the sharp pitchforks Who pricked him to the heart And the loader he has served him worse than that For he's bound him to the cart
They've wheeled him around and around the field Till they came unto a barn And there they made a solemn oath On poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with the crab-tree sticks To cut him skin from bone And the miller he has served him worse than that For he's ground him between two stones
And little Sir John and the nut-brown bowl And his brandy in the glass; And little Sir John and the nut-brown bowl Proved the strongest man at last
The huntsman, he can't hunt the fox Nor so loudly to blow his horn And the tinker he can't mend kettle nor pot Without a little Barleycorn
John Barleycorn
Robert Burns published his own version in 1782, which adds a more mysterious undertone and became the model for most subsequent versions of the ballad. Unlike other versions, Robert Burns makes John Barleycorn into a saviour.
'John Barleycorn' is one of Burns's earliest productions. However, it did not appear in print until the Edinburgh edition of Poems Chiefly in the Scots Dialect (1787). The poet himself noted that the song was 'partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name'.
This folk allegory depicts the personification, death and transubstantiation of 'John Barleycorn' from plant to whisky, referred to here as 'his very heart's blood'.
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 chearful 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 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;
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!