John Barleycorn

Lyrics

There were three maids come from the west, their fortune to espy And these three maids took a solemn oath that John Barleycorn must die They buried him in three furrows deep, piled clods upon his head Then these three maids took a solemn oath that John Barleycorn was dead They let him lie for about three weeks, till the drops from Heaven did fall Then little Sir John lifted up his head and so did amaze them all They let him stand till Midsummer's Day, when he lookеd both pale and wan Then little Sir John grеw a long, long beard and so became a man They've hired the men with the scythes so sharp, to cut him off at the knee And rolled him and tied him about the waist—they served him barbarously They've hired the men with the crabtree sticks, for to thresh him skin from bone And the miller has treated him worst of all, for he's ground him between two stones And that was the death of John Barleycorn, but he lived to tell the tale For they've bunged him into an oaken vat and called him homebrewed ale And the king he could not keep his court, nor the huntsman wind his horn Nor the sailor sail, nor the plowman plow, without John Barleycorn