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JOHN BARLEYCORN.

His color sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They took a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up then a darksome pit
With water to the brim,

And heaved in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But the miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him between two stones.

And they have taken his very heart's blood,

And drunk it round and round;
And so farewell, John Barleycorn!

Thy fate thou now hast found.

BURNS.

THERE WAS A FOLLY MILLER.

There was a jolly miller once lived on the river Dee,
He danced and sung from morn till night, - no lark so

blithe as he;

And this the burden of his song forever used to be:

"I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me.

"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife ;

I would not change my station for any other in life;

No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me; I care for nobody, no, not I, if nobody cares for me."

When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay!

No summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold

decay;

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THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER.

No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say:

"Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and

sing,

The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the

wing,

This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial

ring,

Let heart and voice, and all agree, to say, "Long live

the king!"

BICKERSTAFFE.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

It was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads;

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar !

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst see."

"And how should I know your true-love

From many another one?"

"Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon.

"But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled,
And eyes of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.

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THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

"Within these holy cloisters long
He languished, and he died
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.

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They bore him barefaced on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth;
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so,
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll ever weep and sigh;

For thee I only wished to live,
For thee I wish to die."