JOHN BARLEYCORN

THERE were 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 showers began to fall:
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised 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 show 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.

John Barleycorn

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 heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further 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 used him worst of all-
He crush'd him 'tween 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, Though 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!

731

Robert Burns

STANZAS TO PALE ALE

OH! I have loved thee fondly, ever

Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; From thee my lips they could not sever By saying thou contain'dst strychnine. Did I believe the slander? Never!

I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,

Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; And be thou cold when I am warm,

As late I've been-so high the scale
Of FAHRENHEIT and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!-yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,

It is, in every point of view,

Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,

And burst the buttons off the coat,
Like stout and porter-fattening slops!

Unknown.

ODE TO TOBACCO

THOU who, when fears attack,
Bidst them avaunt, and Black

Care, at the horseman's back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet, when the morn is gray;

Sweet, when they've cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

SONNET TO A CLAM

DUM TACENT CLAIMANT

INGLORIOUS friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;

Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off-as foemen take their spoil-
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!

Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!
John G. Saxe.

TO A FLY

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH

АH! poor intoxicated little knave,

Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;

Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul

Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose-they must, will sup.