But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,
For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.
O whistle, &c.
John Barley-Corn, My Foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E’en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,