POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

His colour sicken'd 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:

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgelled 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 swiin.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther wo, And still as signs of life appeared, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones;

Put a miller used 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.

"Twill make a man forget his wo; "Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in auld Scotland!

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH,

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend? Tho' fate said-a hero should perish in light; So up rose bright Phœbus-and down fell the knight. Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime! Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won. by yon bright god of day!"

181

JOHN BARLEYCORN.*

A BALLAD.

THERE went 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 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,
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.

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

480

POEMS,

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd:
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw,
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend, Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame."

A Bard is selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And every new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the lighter the more they were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er:

Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthin hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.