John Barleycorn

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