Three Versions of "John Barleycorn"

Harvest ballads which personify the crops in the character of "John Barleycorn" have a decidedly ancient feel to them, and James Frazier even made the mistake of claiming they were a relic of pre-Christian sacrificial rites to ensure a bountiful harvest. But in fact, they are far newer than commonly supposed. Here are some examples which might be familiar to readers in the present day.

First, words by Jon Berger, to a melody by Stan Rogers. This is a very modern song, notable for its use accompanying "The Drunken Idiot," a wonderful border morris dance.

John Barleycorn to the sea's gone down in a ship both stout and new
The thirst to slake of Captain Drake and all his loyal crew
To venture brave over wind and wave, the Spaniard for to halt
And though he die of Spanish grape, he'll live as English malt

So we'll strike him down and we'll bind him round and serve him worse than that
We'll grind his bones between two stones and bung him in a vat
Then we'll drink his health in a nut brown ale and raise our glasses high
For before that he might live again, John Barleycorn must die

John Barleycorn's to the courting gone, all dressed in fine array
In pewter clad from toe to head to win a lady gay
The poetry that he declaims will serve him in good stead
For the ladies there do all declare they love it more than bread

So we'll strike him down and we'll bind him round and serve him worse than that
We'll grind his bones between two stones and bung him in a vat
Then we'll drink his health in a nut brown ale and raise our glasses high
For before that he might live again, John Barleycorn must die

John Barleycorn's to the hangman gone; the reason I'll unfold
'Tis for robbing loyal English men of their silver and their gold
In a grave unknown to cross or stone, John Barleycorn is lain
'Til summer's rains have come and gone and he rises up again

So we'll strike him down and we'll bind him round and serve him worse than that
We'll grind his bones between two stones and bung him in a vat
Then we'll drink his health in a nut brown ale and raise our glasses high
For before that he might live again, John Barleycorn must die

This one fits the "sacrificial" theme a bit better, narrating how John suffers great tortures. It's also from the 20th century, the words having been composed by George Mackay Brown. I know it from a musical setting recorded by Gordon Bok, Ed Trickett, and Ann Mayo Muir on "And So Will We Yet." It might just be my favorite of the Barleycorn family:

As I was plowing in my field
The hungriest furrow ever torn
She followed my plow and she did cry
Have you seen my lost John Barleycorn?

Says I, has he got a yellow beard?
Is he always whispering, night and morn?
Does he up and dance when the wind is high?
Says she, that's my John Barleycorn!

One day they took a cruel knife -
Oh, I am weary and forlorn!
They cut him at his golden prayer
And they killed my priest John Barleycorn!

They laid him on a wooden cart
Of all his summer glory shorn
Then threshers broke with stick and spade
The shining bones of Barleycorn!

The miller's stone went round and round
They laid him underneath with scorn
The miller filled a hundred sacks
With the crushed pride of John Barleycorn!

The baker came by and bought his dust
That was a madman, I'll be sworn
He burned my hero in a rage
Of twisting flames, my Barleycorn!

The brewer came by and stole his heart -
Alas, that I was ever born!
He thrust it in a brimming vat
And he drowned my dear John Barleycorn!

And now I travel narrow roads
My hungry feet are dark and worn
But no-one in this winter world
Has seen my dancer Barleycorn!

I took a bannock from my bag
Lord, how her empty mouth did yawn!
Says I, your starving days are done
For here's your lost John Barleycorn!

I took a bottle from my pouch
And poured out whiskey in a horn
Says I, put by your grief for here
Is the merry blood of Barleycorn!

She ate, she drank, she danced she laughed
And home with me she did return
By candle light in my old straw bed
She wept no more for Barleycorn!

Finally, the most familiar version is this one. Traffic recorded it under the title "John Barleycorn Must Die," but unlike the other two, it's much older than the twentieth century - it's best known from Robert Burns, who published it in 1782, but it's based on still earlier versions that predate it by the better part of a century. Like the Brown, it features John Barleycorn being subjected to various tortures that are, in fact, part of the process of harvesting the grain and turning it into delicious beverages. These words are Burns, with the 18th-century Scots-language spellings intact:

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And 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 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 show their deadly rage.

They've taen 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 cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned 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 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 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!

The figure of "John Barleycorn" does not seem to predate the year 1700, but there are antecedents as far back as the fifteenth century that these poems seem to be related to (though still nothing old enough to even remotely fit Frazier's interpretation). I'll share those in my next post.