John Barleycorn

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The Horses of the Gods

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O three men they did come down from Kent
To plough for wheat and rye
And they made a vow and a solemn vow 
John Barleycorn should die

O they ploughed him in the furrow deep
Till the clods lay o'er his head
And these three men were rejoicing then
John Barleycorn was dead

They left him for a week or so
And a shower of rain did fall
John Barleycorn sprang up again
And he proved them liars all

Then they hired men with sickles
To cut him off at the knee
And the worst of all they served Barleycorn
They served him barbarously

Then they hired men with pitchforks
To pitch him onto the load
And the worst of all they served Barleycorn
They bound him down with cord

Then they hired men with thrashels
To beat him high and low
They came smick-smack on poor Jack's back
Till the flesh bled every blow

O the next thing they put him in the malting kiln
Thinking to dry his bones
And the worst of all they served Barleycorn
They crushed him between two stones

Then they put him in the mashing tub
Thinking to scold his tail
And the next thing they called Barleycorn
They called him home brewed ale

So come put your wine into glasses
Your cider in tin cans
Put young Barleycorn in the old brown jug
For he proves the strongest man

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