They wasted o’er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us’d him worst of all—
He crush’d him ’tween the stones.
XII.
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.
XIII.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
’Twill make your courage rise.
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 eye.
XV.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland!