I learned this song from the singing of Dave &
Toni Arthur. It was collected by Tony Wales,
from George Attrill in Sussex.
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John Barleycorn is a hero bold as any in the
land
His fame has stood for ages good and forever
shall stand
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn
When he is in his pride of growth his robes
are rich and green
His head is filled with a goodly beer fit neigh
to serve a Queen
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn
And the reeping time comes round and John
is stricken down
We'll use his blood for England's good and
Englishmens renown
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn
Both lord in courtly castle, and squire in
stately hall
The great name, of birth and fame on John for
succor call
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn
He bids the troubled heart rejoice, brings
warmth to nature's cold
Makes weak men strong and old men young,
and all men brave and bold
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn
Give me my native nutbrown ale, all other
drinks I'll scorn
For English cheer is English beer, our own
John Barleycorn
Hey John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung. Oh John
Barleycorn.
This version was recorded by the
Songwainers in 1971, and has become a
classic. The words were learned from Fred
Jordan, and set to a popular 19th century
harvest festival hymn tune "We Plough the
Fields and Scatter" ("Wir Pflügen und
Straüen" - attributed to J A P Schulz).
There were three men came out of Kent
Their fortunes for to try.
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn should die.
So they ploughed him deep into furrows
And they throwed clods o'er his head;
And these three men home rejoicing went.
John Barleycorn was dead.
Come, put your wine into glasses,
Put your cider into old tin cans.
Put Barleycorn in the nut-brown bowl
For he's proved the strongest man.
For the sun shone warm and the winds blew
strong
And it rained in a day or so.
John Barleycorn saw the wind and the rain
And he soon began to grow.
But the rye began to grow as well
It grew both strong and tall.
John Barleycorn grew strong and sweet
And he proved them liars all.
So they hired men with scythes
For to cut him off at the knee,
And, worse than that, poor Barleycorn
They served him barbarously.
And they hired men with pitchforks
To toss him into the barn.
And when they'd tossed John Barleycorn
They tied him down with thorns.
Then they hired men with thrashes
To beat him high and low.
They came smick-smack upon poor Jack's
back
Until the place began to flow.
Then they put him into a mashin' bin
Thinking to burn his tail,
And when he came out they changed his
name
For they called him "Home-brewed Ale"
|
Here is a related version:
John Barleycorn is a hero bold
As any in the land
His fame has stood for ages good
And forever shall stand
The whole wide world respects him
No matter friend or foe
And where they be that makes him
Too free he's sure to lay them low
Hey! John Barleycorn, Ho John Barleycorn
Old and young his praise is sung: John
Barleycorn
To see him in his pride of growth
His robes are rich and green
His head is speared with goodly beard
Fit neigh to serve a Queen
And the harvest time comes round
And John is stricken down
He'll use his blood for England's good and
Englishmens' renown
The lord in courtly castle
The squire in stately hall
The great name, of birth
And fame on John for succor call
He bids the troubled heart rejoice
Gives warmth to Nature's call
Makes weak men strong and old men
And all men brave and bold
Here are some other variants...
This one was collected from 'Shepherd'
Haden, Bampton, Oxfordshire in 1909:
There was three men came out of the west
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn should die
They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed
him in,
Throwed clods upon his head
And these three men made a solenm vow
John Barleycorn was dead
Then they let him lie for a very long time
Till the rain from heaven did fall
Then little Sir John sprung up his head
And soon amazed them all
They let him stand till midsummer
Till he looked both pale and wan
And little Sir John he growed a long beard
And so became a man
They hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee
They rolled him and tied him by the waist
And served him most barbarously
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
Who pricked him to the heart
And the loader he served him worse than
that
For he bound him to the cart
They wheeled him round and round the field
Till they came unto a barn
And there they made a solemn mow
Of poor John Baricycorn
They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
To cut him skin from bone
And the miller he served him worse than
that
For he ground him between two stones
Here's little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl
And brandy in a glass
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last
And the huntsman he can't hunt the fox
Nor so loudly blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend kettles or pots
Without a little of Barleycorn
The Barley Grain For Me
Oh, three men went to market to sell three
loads of rye.
They shouted up and they shouted down:
the barley grain should die.
Ti rie Icherie eerie an
Ti rie ichrie ee.
Ti rie icherie erie an
The Barley Grain for me.
The ploughman came with a heavy plough.
He ploughed me under the sod,
The winter being over and the summer
coming on.
The reaper came with a sharp knife. He
made me for to cry.
He caught me by the whiskers and he cut
me above the thigh.
The binder came with a heavy thong. She
bound me all around,
And they hired a handy man to stand me on
the ground.
The pitcher came with a sharp fork. He
pierced me to the heart,
And like a thief or highwayman, they threw
me on the cart.
The thresher came with a heavy flail. He
swore he'd break my bones,
But the miller he used me worse, he ground
me between two stones.
They took me out of that. They put me in a
well.
They left me there for a space of time 'till my
belly began to swell.
The brewer came with all her art. She put
me in the pan,
And when I got into the jug, I was the
strongest man.
They drank me in the kitchen. They drank
me in the hall,
But the drunkard used me worst of all. He
threw me against the wall. |
There were three men come out of the west
Their fortunes for to try
And they have made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die
Fa la la la, it's a lovely day
Fa la la la lay o
Fa la la la, it's a lovely day
Sing fa la la la lay
They plowed him in three furrows deep
Laid clods all on his head
And they have made a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead
Well then there came a shower of rain
Which from the clouds did fall
John Barleycorn sprang up again
And so amazed them all
Well then came men with great sharp
scythes
To cut him off at the knee
They bashed his head against a stone
And they used him barbarously
Well then came men with great long flails
To cut him skin from bone
The miller has used him worse than that
He ground him between two stones
They wheeled him here, they wheeled him
there
Wheeled him into the barn
And they have used him worse than that
They bunged him in a vat
They worked their will upon John Barleycorn
But he lives to tell the tale
We pour him into an old brown jug
And we call him home-brewed ale
Here is yet another - attributed to Robert
Burns:
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 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 bendin 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;
They 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 heav'd in John Barleycorn-
There, let him sink or swim!
They laid him 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 atones.
And they hae taen his very hero 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! |