A Pleasant New Ballad,
On Sir
JOHN BARLEY-CORN
The Tune is: Shall I ly beyond thee.
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AS I went through the North Countrie,
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I heard a merry meeting,
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A pleasant Toy and full of joy,
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two Noble-men were greeting;
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And as they walked forth to sport,
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upon a Summers Day,
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They met another Noble-man,
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with whom they had a fray.
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His Name was Sir John Barley-Corn,
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he dwelt down in a Vale,
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And had a kinsman dwelt with him,
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they calld him Tom Good Ale,
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Another named Sir Richard Beer,
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was ready at that time:
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And likewise came a busie Peer,
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called Sir William White-Wine.
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Some of them fought in a black jack,
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some of them in a Can,
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But yet the chiefest in a black Pot,
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fought like a Nobleman.
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Sir Barley-Corn fought in a bowl,
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who wan the Victory,
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Which made them all to curse and swear,
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that Barley-Corn must die.
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Some said kill him, some said him drown
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some wisht to hang him high.
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For those that followed Barley-Corn,
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they said would Beggers die.
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Then with a Plow they Plowd him up,
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and thus they did devise
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To bury him within the Earth,
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and swore he should not rise.
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With Harrows strong they came to him
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and burst Clods on his head,
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A joyful Banquet then was made,
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when Barley-Corn was dead.
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He rested still upon the Earth,
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till rain from Sky did fall.
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Then he grew up in branches green,
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which sore amazed them all.
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Increasing then till midsummer,
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he made them all afraid:
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For then he did spring up on high,
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and had a goodly beard.
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When riping at St. Jamess time,
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his countenance waxd wan.
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Yet now full grown in part of strength,
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and thus became a man.
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Wherefore with hooks and sickles keen,
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unto the fields they hyd,
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They cut his Legs off by the knees,
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and Limb from Limb divide,
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Then bloodily they cut him down,
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from place where he did stand.
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And like a Thief for treacherie,
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they bound him in a band.
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So then they took him up again,
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according to his kind,
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And placd him up in several stacks,
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to wither with the wind.
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Then with a Pitchfork sharp and lang,
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they rent him to the heart,
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And Traitor like for Treason vile,
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they bound him in a Cart.
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And tending him with Weapons strong,
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unto the Town they hie,
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Whereas they movd him a mow,
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and so they let him ly.
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They left him groaning by the walls,
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till all his bones were sore,
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And having took him up again,
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they cast him on the floor.
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And hired two with hollin Clubs,
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and beat at him at once
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Who thwackt so hard on Barley-Corn,
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the flesh fell from his bones.
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Then after took him up again,
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to please some womens minds,
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Yea, dusted, fandd, and sifted him,
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till he was almost blind.
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Full fast they knit him in a Sack,
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which grievd him very sore,
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And soundly steept him in a Fat,
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for three days space and m[o]re.
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From whence again they took him out,
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and laid him forth to dry,
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Then cast him on the Chamber floor,
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and swore that he should dy.
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They rubd and stird him up and down
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and oft did toil and ture,
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The Mault-Man likewise woos his death
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his body should be sure.
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They puld and hald him up in spight,
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and threw him on a Kill,
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Yea, dryd him ore a fire hote,
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the more to work their will.
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Then to the Mill they forcd him straight,
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whereas they bruisd his bones,
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The Miller swore to murder him,
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betwixt a pair of stones,
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The last time that they took him up,
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they servd him worse than that,
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For with hot scalding liquor store,
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they washt him in a Fat.
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But not content with this well wot,
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they wrought him so much harm,
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With cruel threats they promise next
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to beat him into barm,
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And lying thus in danger deep,
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for fear that he should quarrel,
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They heavd him straight out of the Fat,
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and turnd into the barrel.
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They goard and broachd it with a Tap,
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so this his death began,
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And drew out every drop of blood,
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while any drop would run.
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Some brought in sacks upon their backs,
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some brought in bowls and pail,
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Yea, every man some weapon had,
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poor Barley-Corn to Kill.
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When Sir John Good-Ale heard of this,
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he came with meikle might,
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And took by strength their tongues away
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their Legs and eke their Sight.
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Sir John at last in this respect,
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so paid them all their hyre,
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That some lay bleeding by the walls,
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some tumbling in the Myre
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Some lay groaning by the walls,
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some fell ith street down right,
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The wisest of them scarcely knew,
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what he had done ore night,
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All you good wives that brews good Ale,
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God keep you from all teen.
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But if you put too much water in,
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the Crows pick out your Eyne.
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