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Some auld us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot ;
I was suspected for the plot ;

I scorn'd to lie;
So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.


But, by my gun, guns

the wale, An' by my pouther an' my hail, An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale,

For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
L-d, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea :
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers !

It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient; Meantime I am, respected sir,

Your most ubedient,



There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,
An' 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 chearful spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd 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 shew their deadly rage.


* This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name.

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They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

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 farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appeard,

They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen 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.

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XIV. 'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her


Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand ;
And may his great posterity.

Ne'er fail in old Seotland !


Tune, “ Gillicrankie."

When Guilford good our pilot stood,

And did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,

Within America, nan:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,

And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full congress,

Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takęs,

I wat he was na slaw, man ;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,

And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,

Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band,

Amang his en’mies a', man.

Poor Tammy Gage within a cage

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 'Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe

For Philadelphia, man:

Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin

Guid christian blood to draw, man; But at New-York, wi' knife an' fork,

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,

'Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost his way, ae misty day,

In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,

An' did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save

He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,

Began to fear a fa, man;
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure,

The German chief to thraw, man:
For paddy Burke, like ony Turk,

Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charley Fox threw by the box,

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game;

Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,

Conform to gospel law, inan:
Saint Stephen's boys, wi’ jarring noise,

They did his measures thraw, man,
For North an' Fox united stocks,

An' bore him to the wa', man.

VII. Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie's cartes,

He swept the stakes awa', man, 'Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,

Led him a sair fau pas, man:

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