They took a plough and ploughed him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all. The sultry suns of summer came, The sober autumn entered mild, His colour sickened more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They've ta’en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, They filled up a darksome pit They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, John Barleycorn was a hero bold, For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Old Ballad XXI MARY-ANN'S CHILD Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms, In her house with the trees overhead, For her husband was out in the night and the storms, And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar, And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree), That a prettier never did babble and smile Up a-top of a proud mother's knee ; And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all. But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she felt she could give all the world for to tell Of a truth what his ailing could be; And she thought on him last in her prayers at night, And she look'd at him last as she put out the light. And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight, And she rock'd him so sorrowfully ; And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay, Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away. |