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    "John Barleycorn"genre: Folk
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    A trad folk song given a new treatment.
    MP3.com CD: Poetry & Songs - buy it!buy it!
    MP3.com CD: Best of the Bard - buy it!buy it!
    MP3.com CD: Barleycorn Now! - buy it!buy it!
    CD: New Folking Reality   Label: Pink Lemon Records on the vinyl EP Mask
    Credits: Steve Andrews: vocals, guitar and arrangement, Ian Wallace: samples and keyboards, Glyn Groves: mandolin

    Story Behind the Song
    I just love the song and wanted to try a modern arrangement.

    Lyrics
    There were 3 men, came out of the West,
    Their fortunes for to try
    And these 3 men made a solemn vow:
    John Barleycorn should die;
    They took a plough and ploughed him down,
    Threw clods all on his head
    And these 3 men made a solemn vow:
    John Barleycorn was dead.
    They let him lie for a very long time
    Till the rain from Heaven did fall
    And Little Sir John he raised up his head
    And so amazed them all,
    They let him lie through the summer sun
    Till he looked all pale and wan
    And Little Sir John grew a long, long beard
    And so became a man.
    They hired men with the scythes so sharp
    To cut him all down by the knee,
    They roped and tied him 'round by the waist,
    Served him most barbarously,
    They hired men with pitchforks to pierce him to the heart
    But the loader he served him more barbarous than that
    For he bound him to the cart.
    They filled up a loathsome pit with water to the brim
    And heaved in poor John Barleycorn
    To watch him sink or swim,
    They hauled him out across the floor
    To work him further woe
    And as signs of life appeared they'd toss him to and fro.
    They roasted over a scorching flame the very marrow of his bones
    But the miller he served him more barbarous than that
    For he ground him between 2 stones.
    Here's Little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl
    And brandy in the glass
    And Little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl
    Proved the stronger man at last
    For the hunter he can't hunt the fox
    Or so loudly blow his horn
    And the tinker he can't mend his kettles or his pots
    Without a little bit of John Barleycorn.

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