The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head well-armed wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe, And still as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank 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 joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great prosperity Ne'er fail in old Scotland! _ANONYMOUS_ THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER ON the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she. On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more. For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she. On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she. _SAMUEL ROGERS_ DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty. In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale. A WISH