All

you

IX.

who follow wealth and power

With unremitting ardour, O,

The more in this you look for bliss,

You leave your view the farther, O :
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,
Or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.

Little poetic fervour found its way into this chaunt; yet it abounds with manly sentiments, and exhibits fortitude of mind amid the sorrows of the disastrous year 1784." The following song," says the Poet, is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." He feels what many have felt

"When sometimes by my labour

I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune
Comes gen'rally upon me, O."

Amid all his distresses and woes

Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools,"

he had still some consolation

"To plough and sow, and reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;

For one, he said, to labour bred,

Was a match for fortune fairly, O."

Much of the early history of the Poet may be traced

in these rude verses.

JOHN BARLEYCORN:

A BALLAD.

THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
An' they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful 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.

They've ta'en 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 appear'd,
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 ha'e ta'en 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 woe; "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 old Scotland!

It is intimated by Burns that John Barleycorn is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name; the ancient ballad is printed by Jamieson, who

gives it, he says, from his own recollection as he learned it in Morayshire, when he was a boy, and before the poems of Burns appeared. The merit of originality belongs to the old bard. Some of the verses are word for word the same; and those which are altered, have suffered little change in the sentiment. A few specimens will suffice to shew this :

"There came three merry men from the east,

And three merry men they be;

And they have sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn shall die."

The effect of spring on honest John is well described ; the summer heat, too, does its duty :

:

"But the spring time it came on at last,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn sprung up again,

Which did surprise them all.

"Then the summer heat on him did beat,

And he grew pale and wan;

John Barleycorn has got a beard

Like any other man."

To John's merits when he is cut by the sickle, thrashed, winnowed, ground, and brewed, the old bard bears explicit testimony :

"He'll gar the huntsman shoot his dog,

His gold a miser scorn;

He'll gar a maiden dance stark naked,

Wi' the tooming of a horn."

The version of Burns is more consistent, but not more graphic than the old strain.