John Barleycorn

This is a poem and documentation that I wrote for the 2004 Ice Dragon Pentathalon. 

-------------------------------------------------------------

John Barleycorn

Once he was young and clad in green
Fine his hair about his head,
Both men and women did him ill
When he grew upon the hill.

Along came Sir William Whiskey
And he alone did divine
To bury him quick within the earth,
And swore he should not rise.

He saw his head began to rear
And sent for Richard Beere
Who brought with him fifty and eight
Men of war with their weapons so great

They rushed forward with sickles keen
And every one of them took a swing.
They cut him shortly below the knee
And gave him bloody wounds until he fell.

So then they took him up again,
And bound him shortly about the waist
And packed him up in several stacks,
To wither with the wind.

They brought him from the hill
Not one friend had he in this band
With rough hands they made him to stand
For they would let him lie no more.

Then Thomas Goodale a sickle he picked up
And with one swing cut through his top
And John Barleycorn without his head
Could no more hear, see nor speak.

There he lay groning by the walls
Until all his wounds were sore;
At length they took him up again,
And cast him on the floor.

Then two men with stout clubs,
Stepped foward to beat his body.
They hit poor John Barleycorn
Until his flesh fell from the bone.

Then they picked him up again,
And took his flesh away.
They cast his bones upon the floor,
Swearing John Barleycorn would die.

Then they picked him up again
And threw him in a kiln,
And his bones there was dried by fire
But still Barleycorn would not die.

To the miller he was brought
For Barleycorn's death they sought
And the miller there burst his bones
Between a pair of great mill stones.

Then before any man may quarrell
They drowned him in a barrel
And was left there all alone
Until the seasons had changed again.

But until they set a tap to him
He was still alive in that tun
And they drew out his blood
Until nary a drop would run.

But it was John Barleycorn
Who had the last laugh.
For upon ther faces he sets his mark,
Two blood red eyes and a nose to match

And John Barleycorn paid them all
For some he took their tongues away
Or their legs or else their sight.
And left the rest sleeping where they lay.



This poem was done in the style of several of the 17th century written version of the song by the same name. One of the earliest written documentation appeared during the reign of King James I, but was a common song at that time. The song so well known throughout England in the 17th century that many regional variants were recorded; Separate versions from Sussex, Hampshire, surrey, Somerset and Wiltshire were published.

In The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs (by Dr Ralph Vaugham Williams and A.L. Lloyd) the following note about this ballad can be read:

"This ballad is rather a mystery. Is it an unusually coherent folklore survival of the ancient myth of the slain and the resurrected Corn-God, or is it the creation of an antiquarian revivalist, which has passed into popular currency and become `folklorised'? It is in any case an old song, of which an elaborate form was printed in the reign of James I. It was widespread over the English and Scottish countryside, and Robert Burns rewrote a well-known version."

John Barleycorn is an anthropomorphized image of the barley grain that goes into making malt beverages, whom I named in the piece, Sir William Whiskey, Richard Beere and Thomas Goodale. I wrote the poem using the style of alliteration found in past versions. I tried to bring about the same imagery without repeating what far better poets have done before me. I also tried to avoid just rewriting the entire song. In the Robert Burns' version, he gives:
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.

In keeping with this tradition, I wrote in a less poetic style:
Then they picked him up again
And threw him in a kiln,
And his bones there was dried by fire
But still Barleycorn would not die. 

To the miller he was brought
For Barleycorn's death they sought
And the miller there burst his bones
Between a pair of great mill stones.

In an even earlier version (Allan-a-mault)
Quhy sowld not allane honorit be
Quhen he wes yung and cled in grene
Haifand his air abowt his Ene
Baith men an wemem did him mene
quhen he grew on yon hilis he
quhy sowld not allane honorit be 

His fostir faider of the toun
To vissy Allane he maid him boun
he saw him lyane allace in swoun
For falt of help and lyk to de
quhy sowld not allane honorit be

And my version:
Once he was young and clad in green
Fine his hair about his head,
Both men and women did him ill
When he grew upon the hill.

Along came Sir William Whiskey
And he alone did divine
To bury him quick within the earth,
And swore he should not rise.



References:
Thomas Robbin's Chapbook: The Arraignment and Inditing of Sir John Barleycorn, Knight. Oxford Press

Burns, Robert. Poems. 1787.

Clauge, Dr. John,  Manx Reminiscences; English Transaltion. 1911

Barley: The World's Oldest Crop. From the University of Oregon's Barley Project

The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs. Edited by Ralph Vaughan Williams and A.L. Lloyd. Penguin Books, Baltimore, MD 1968. Originally published 1959

 Bruce Olsen's Roots of Folk: Old English, Scots, and Irish Songs and Tunes (http://users.erols.com/olsonw/)

-------------------------------------------------------------

Observations from 2015:

I had forgotten that I had wrote this. I had found it in a zipped up archive. Not my finest piece of work, or my best documentation.