John Barleycorn (Must Die) - Traffic

There were three men came out of the west,
their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die
They've plowed, 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

They've let him lie for a very long time,
'til the rains from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprung up his head
and so amazed them all
They've let him stand 'til Midsummer's 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 way,
serving him most barbarously
They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks
who've pricked him to the heart
And the loader he has served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart

They've wheeled him around and around
a field 'til they came onto a pond
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

And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
and his brandy in the glass
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
proved the strongest man at last
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 a little barleycorn