BARLEYCORN
C.J.S.
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1
There came three men from out the West
Their victory to try;
And they have ta'en a solemn oath,
Poor Barleycorn should die.
With a Ri-fol-lol-riddle-diddle-dol
Ri fol, ri fol dee.
2
They took a plough and ploughed him in,
Clods harrowed on his head;
And then they took a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.
With a Ri-fol &c.
3
There he lay sleeping in the ground
Till rain did on him fall;
Then Barleycorn sprung up his head,
And so amazed them all.
With a Ri-fol &c.
4
There he remained till Midsummer
And look'd both pale and wan;
Then Barleycorn he got a beard
And so became a man.
With a Ri-fol &c.
5
Then they sent men with scythes so sharp
To cut him off at knee;
And then poor Johnny Barleycorn
They served most barbarouslie.
With a Ri-fol &c.
6
Then they sent men with pitch forks strong
To pierce him through the heart;
And like a doleful Tragedy
They bound him in a cart.
With a Ri-fol &c.
7
And then they brought him to a barn
A prisoner to endure;
And so they fetched him out again,
And laid him on the floor.
With a Ri-fol &c.
8
Then they set men with holly clubs,
To beat the flesh from th' bones;
But the miller served him worse than that
He ground him 'twixt two stones.
With a Ri-fol &c.
9
O! Barleycorn is the choicest grain
That 'ere was sown on land
It will do more than any grain,
By the turning of your hand.
With a Ri-fol &c.
10
It will make a boy into a man,
A man into an ass;
To silver it will change your gold,
Your silver into brass.
With a Ri-fol &c.
11
It will make the huntsman hunt the fox,
That never wound a horn;
It will bring the tinker to the stocks
That people may him scorn.
With a Ri-fol &c.
12
O! Barleycorn is th' choicest grain,
That e'er was sown on land.
And it will cause a man to drink
Till he neither can go nor stand.
With a Ri-fol &c.
No 15 SWEET NIGHTINGALE
C.J.S.
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1
My sweet-heart, come along.
Don't you hear the fond song
The sweet notes of the Nightingale flow?
Don't you hear the fond tale,
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below?
2
Pretty Betty, don't fail,
For I'll carry your pail
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in the valleys below.
3
Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own,
Along with you Sir, I'll not go,
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings
