A Pleasant New BALLAD to sing Evening and Morn,
Of the Bloody MURTHER of Sir JOHN BARLEY-CORN.
To the Tune of, Shall I lye beyond thee, etc.
Licens'd and Enter'd according to Order.
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AS I went through the North Country,
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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 Summer's 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 call'd him Thomas Good-ale.
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The one 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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call'd 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 Noble man.
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Sir Barley-corn fought in a bowl,
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who won the victory;
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Which made them all to chafe and swear,
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that Barley-corn must dye.
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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 dye.
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Then with a plow they plow'd 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 on branches green,
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which sore amaz'd them all.
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Increasing thus till Midsummer,
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he made them all afraid;
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For he sprung up on high,
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and had a goodly beard.
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When ripening at St. James's tide,
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his countenance waxed 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 field they hy'd,
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They cut his leggs 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 treachery
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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 plac'd him up in several stacks,
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to wither with the wind.
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Then with a pitchfork sharp and long
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they rent him to the heart,
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And traytor-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 hye,
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Whereas they mow'd him in a mow,
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and so they let him lye.
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They left him groaning by the walls,
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till all his bones was 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 holly-clubs
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to 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 mind,
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Yea, dusted, fann'd, 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 griev'd him very sore,
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And soundly steept him in a fat,
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for three days space and more.
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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 dye,
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They rub'd and stir'd him up and down,
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and oft did toyl and ture,
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The Malt-man likewise vows his death
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his bovy should be sure.
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They pull'd and hal'd him up in spight,
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and threw him on a kill,
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Yea, dry'd him o're a fire hot,
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the more to work their will.
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Then to the mill they forc'd him strait,
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whereas they bruis'd 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 serv'd him worse then that,
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For with hot scolding liquor store
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they washt him in a fat.
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But not content with this, God wot,
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they wrought him so much harm,
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With cruel threat they promise next,
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to beat him into a barm.
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And lying in this danger deep,
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for fear that he should quarrel,
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They heav'd him straight out of the fat,
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and turn'd into the barrel.
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They goar'd and broach'd it with a tap,
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so thus 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 jacks 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 mickle 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 hire,
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That some lay bleeding by the walls,
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some tumbling in the mire;
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Some lay groaning by the walls,
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some fell i'th' street down-right,
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The wisest of them scarcely knew
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what he had done o're night.
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All you good Wives that brew 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 Devil put out your eyne.
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