He begg'd, for gudesake, I wad be his wife,

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow :

So e'en to preserve the poor body his life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised 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 entered 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 ta'en 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 fill'd 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 further 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 used him worst of all—
He crushed him between two stones.

And they hae 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, Though 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!

Lady Mary Ann

O, Lady Mary Ann

Looks o'er the castle wa',
She saw three bonie boys
Playing at the ba';
The youngest he was

The flower amang them a’;
My bonie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

O father! O father!
An' ye think it fit,
We'll send him a year
To the college yet:
We'll sew a green ribbon
Round about his hat,
And that will let them ken

He's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann

Was a flower i' the dew,

Sweet was its smell,

And bonie was its hue!

And the langer it blossom'd

The sweeter it grew ; For the lily in the bud Will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochrane

Was the sprout of an aik; Bonie and bloomin'

And straught was its make: The sun took delight

To shine for its sake, And it will be the brag O' the forest yet.

The simmer is gane

When the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa'

That we hae seen;

But far better days

I trust will come again,

For my bonie laddie's young,
But he's growin' yet.

R. BURNS.