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And they have taen his very heart's blood,
And drunk 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 joys!
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' 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.

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

Green grow the Rashes.

A FRAGMENT.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o'man,
And 'twere na for the lasses, O?

CHORUS.
Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.