Traffic – John Barleycorn Must Die (Guitar)

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There were three men came out of the west,

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their fortunes for to try

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And these three men made a solemn vow:

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John Barleycorn must die.

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They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in;

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threw clods at Barley's head

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And these three men made a solemn vow:

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John Barleycorn was dead.

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They've let him lie for a very long time,

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‘till the rains from heaven did fall

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And little Sir John sprung up his head,

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and so amazed them all.

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They've let him stand ‘till midsummer's day,

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‘till he looked both pale and wan

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And little Sir John's grown a long, long beard,

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and so become a man.

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They've hired men with the scythes so sharp,

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to cut him off at the knee

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They've rolled him and tied him by the waist,

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servin' him most barbarously.

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They've hired men with the sharp pitchforks,

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who pricked him to the heart

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And the loader he has served him worse than that,

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for he's bound him to the cart

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They've wheeled him around and around the field,

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‘till they came unto a barn

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And there they made a solemn oath,

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on poor John Barleycorn.

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They've hired men with the crab-tree sticks,

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to cut him skin from bone

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And the miller he has served him worse than that,

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for he's ground him between two stones.

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And little Sir John and the nut-brown bowl,

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and he's brandy in the glass

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And little Sir John and the nut-brown bowl,

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proved the strongest man at last.

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The huntsman, he can't hunt the fox,

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nor so loudly to blow his horn

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And the tinker he can't mend kettle nor pots,

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without a little Barleycorn