John Barleycorn

Nearing harvest-time, which means that out in the country, they're busy constructing giant wicker effigies and finding "volunteers" from the local constabulary to have a closer look inside (while advising them to ignore all the people stood around with lit torches).

It is, of course, the autumn equinox today as well. Wrap up warm, folks; it all goes downhill from here.

As I'm heading off to t'pub, I'll leave you with a traditional English folk song celebrating the journey of the crop from earth to pint glass.


There were three men come out of the west, their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn should die
They've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
Throwed clods upon his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead
They've let him lie for a very long time, 'til the rain from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprung up his head and so amazed them all
They've let him stand 'til Midsummer Day 'til he looked both pale and wan
And little Sir John's grown a long long beard and so become a man
They've hired men with their scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knee
They've rolled him and tied him by the waist serving him most barbarously
They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks who've pricked him to the heart
And the loader he served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart
They've wheeled him round and around the field 'til they came unto the barn
And there they made a solemn oath on poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with their crabtree sticks to cut him skin from bone
And the miller he has served him worse than that
For he's ground him between two stones

Here's little Sir John in the nut brown bowl and he's brandy in the glass
And little Sir John in the nut brown bowl proved the strongest man at last
For the huntsman he can't hunt the fox nor so loudly to blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend kettle or pots without John Barleycorn