paroles de chanson John Barleycorn - John Renbourn

There were three men came 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,
Threw clods upon his head,
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn was dead.

Then they let him lie for a very long time,
Till the rains from heaven did fall,
But little Sir John sprung up his head,
And soon amazed them all.

Then they let him stand till midsummer comes,
Till he looked both pale and wan,
But little Sir John, he grew a long beard,
And so became a man.

Then they hired men with a scyth 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 the sharp pitchforks,
Who pricked him to the heart,
But the loader he's served him worse than that,
For he's bound into the cart.

They've wheeled him around and around in the field,
Till they came unto a barn,
And there they made a solemn oath,
On poor John Barleycorn.

They've hired men with the crab-tree sticks,
To cut him skin from bone,
But the miller he served him worse than that,
For he ground him between two stones.

It's a little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl,
And brandy in the glass;
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl,
Proved the stronger man at last.

The huntsman, he can't hunt the fox,
Nor loudly to blow his horn,
And the tinker he can't mend kettle nor pot,
Without a little of Barleycorn