Lapas attēli

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A’ that I bargain'd for an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect
Yon sang?, ye'll sen’t wi' cannie care

And no neglect.

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing;
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!
I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king

At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun,

A bonnie hen!
And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me fort;

But, deil-ma-care!
Somebody tells the poacher court

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o'guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!

o'er moor an' dale,
For this, niest year.

shall pay,

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
L-d, l’se hae sportin by an' by.

For my gowd guinea;
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame !
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

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.

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There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

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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,
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 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;
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.

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They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;
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,

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.

1 This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the

same name.

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