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I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
I will expect
And no neglect.
Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing;
An' danc'd my fill!
At Bunker's Hill.
'Twas ae night lately in my fun,
A bonnie hen!
Thought nane wad ken.
The poor wee thing was little hurt;
The hale affair.
Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o'guns the wale,
I vow an' swear!
o'er moor an' dale,
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
For my gowd guinea;
For't, in Virginia.
Trowth, they had muckle for to blame !
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' thole their blethers!
It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
When time's expedient:
Your most obedient.
1 A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side.
? A song he had promised the author.
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head,
1 And they hae sworn a solemn oath 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 ta’en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgel'd him full sore;
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,
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 ta’en 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,
'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.
1 This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the