They took a plough and ploughed 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, The sober autumn entered mild, His bending joints and drooping head His colour sickened 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; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, They filled up a darksome pit They heaved in John Barleycorn, They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, John Barleycorn was a hero bold, For if you do but taste his blood, Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Old Ballad XXI MARY-ANN'S CHILD Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms, For her husband was out in the night and the storms, And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar, And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree), That a prettier never did babble and smile Up a-top of a proud mother's knee; And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all. But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she felt she could give all the world for to tell Of a truth what his ailing could be; And she thought on him last in her prayers at night, And she look'd at him last as she put out the light. And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight, And she rock'd him so sorrowfully; And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay, Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away. And the moon was a-shining down into the place (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And his mother could see that his lips and his face Were as white as clean ashes could be; And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swell Till her senses came back with the first tear that fell. Never more can she feel his warm face in her breast (Under the leafy elm-tree), For his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest, And he's now from his pain a-set free; For his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled, W. Barnes XXII THE USEFUL PLOUGH A country life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair, In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in grey, And follow the useful plough. They rise with the morning lark, And labour till almost dark; Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing, On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment, Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the useful plough! Old Song XXIII A WREN'S NEST Among the dwellings framed by birds No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness. |