A Pleasant New Ballad to sing Evening and morn,
Of the Bloody murder of Sir John Barley-corn.
The Tune is, Shall I lye beyond thee.
|
AS I went through the North country
|
I heard a merry meeting,
|
A pleasant toy, and full of joy,
|
two Noble-men were greeting.
|
And as they walked forth to sport,
|
upon a Summers day,
|
They met another Noble-man,
|
with whom they had a fray.
|
His name was Sir John Barley-corn
|
he dwelt down in a vale,
|
And had a Kinsman dwelt with him,
|
they cald him Thomas Good-ale.
|
The one named Sir Richard Beer,
|
was ready at that time,
|
And likewise came a busie Peer,
|
called Sir William White-wine.
|
Some of them fought in a black Jack,
|
some of them in a Can,
|
But yet the chiefest in a Black-Pot,
|
fought like a Noble-man.
|
Sir Barley corn fought in a Bowl,
|
who won the Victory,
|
Which made them all to chafe and swear,
|
that Barley-corn must die.
|
Some said kill him, some said him drown,
|
some wisht to hand him high,
|
For those that followed Barley-corn,
|
they said would Beggers die.
|
Then with a Plow they Plowd him up,
|
and thus they did devise,
|
To bury him quick within the earth,
|
and swore he would not rise.
|
With Harrows strong they came to him,
|
and burst clods on his head,
|
A joyful banquet then was made,
|
when Barley-corn was dead.
|
He rested still upon the earth,
|
till Rain from Sky did fall,
|
Then he grew up on branches green,
|
which sore amazd them all.
|
Increasing thus till Midsumer,
|
he made them all afraid,
|
For he sprang up on high,
|
and got a goodly beard.
|
When ripening at St. James-tide,
|
his countenance waxed wan,
|
Yet now full grown in part of strength,
|
and thus became a man.
|
Wherefore with hooks and sickles keen,
|
unto the fields they hyd,
|
They cut his legs off by the knees,
|
and Limb from Limb divide.
|
Then bloodily they cut him down,
|
from place where he did stand;
|
And like a thief for treachery,
|
they bound him in a band.
|
So then they took him up again,
|
according to his kind,
|
And placd him up in several stacks,
|
to wither with the wind.
|
Then with a Pitchfork sharp and long,
|
they rent him to the heart,
|
And traytor-like for treason vild,
|
they bound him in a Cart.
|
And tending him with weapons strong,
|
unto the town they hie,
|
Whereas they Mowd him in a Mow,
|
and so they let him lie.
|
They left him groaning by the walls,
|
till all his bones were sore,
|
And having took him up again,
|
they cast him on a floor.
|
And hired two with Holly-Clubs,
|
to beat at him at once,
|
Who thwackt so hard on Barley-corn,
|
the flesh fell from his bones.
|
Then after took him up again,
|
to please some womens mind,
|
Yea dusted, fand, and sifted him,
|
till he was almost b[l]ind.
|
Full fast they knit him in a Sack,
|
which grievd him very sore,
|
And soundly steept him in a fat,
|
for three days space and more.
|
From whence again they took him out,
|
and laid him forth to dry,
|
Then cast him on a Chamber floor,
|
and swore that he [sh]ould dye.
|
They rubd and stird him up and down,
|
and oft did toyl and ture,
|
The Malt-man likewise vows his death,
|
his body should be sure.
|
They pu[l]d and hald him up in spight,
|
and threw him on a Hill,
|
Yea dryd him ore a fire hot,
|
the more to work their will.
|
Then to the Mill they forcd him straight,
|
whereas they bruizd his bones,
|
The Miller swore to murder him
|
betwixt a pair of stones.
|
The last time when they took him up,
|
and served him worse than that,
|
For with hot scolding liquor store,
|
they washt him in a fat.
|
But not content with this God wot,
|
they wrought him so much harm,
|
With cruel threat they promise next
|
to beat him into Barm.
|
And lying in this danger deep,
|
for fear that he should quarrel,
|
They heavd him straight out of the Fat,
|
and turnd him in the Barrel.
|
They gored and broached it with a tap,
|
so thus his death began,
|
And drew out every drop of blood,
|
while any drop would run.
|
Some brought in Jacks upon their back,
|
some brought in bow[l]s and pail,
|
Yea, every man some Weapon had
|
poor Barley-corn to kill.
|
When Sir John Good-Ale heard of this,
|
he came with mickle might,
|
And took by strength their tongues away,
|
their legs, and eke their sight.
|
Sir John at last in his respect,
|
so paid them all their hire,
|
Then some lay bleeding by the Walls,
|
some tumbling in the mire.
|
Some sadly groaning by the walls,
|
some fell ith street down right,
|
The wisest of them scarcely knew,
|
what he had done ore night.
|
All you good wives, that brew good Ale
|
God keep you from all teen,
|
But if you put too much water in,
|
the devil put out your Eyne.
|
|
|
|
|
|