SpokenVerse | The Ballad of John Barleycorn by George Mackay Brown (read by Tom O'Bedlam) @SpokenVerse | Uploaded April 2013 | Updated October 2024, 6 hours ago.
George was not a well man, and when he discovered the booze it became the love of his life. He was a boozer rather than an alcoholic, but only because his constitution wouldn't have permitted great indulgence.
After the war the pubs opened again and he had a couple of pints, which he said was "a revelation; they flushed my veins with happiness; they washed away all cares and shyness and worries. I remember thinking to myself 'If I could have two pints of beer every afternoon, life would be a great happiness'".
I usually write more notes than this, but it's late and my wife is after something. If you're interested check back again tomorrow, when there'll probably be more ramblings for you to read.
The painting at the end is Mary Magdalene by Peter Paul Rubens.
As I was ploughing in my field
The hungriest furrow ever torn
Followed my plough and she did cry
"Have you seen my mate John Barleycorn?"
Says I "Has he got a yellow beard?
Is he always whispering night and morn?
Does he up and dance when the wind is high?"
Says she "That's my John Barleycorn."
One day they took a cruel knife
(Oh I am weary and forlorn!)
They struck him at his golden prayer!
They killed my priest, John Barleycorn.
They laid him on a wooden cart,
Of all his summer-glory shorn,
And threshers broke with stick and stave
The shining bones of Barleycorn.
The miller's stone went round and round,
They rolled him underneath with scorn;
The miller filled a hundred sacks
With the crushed pride of Barleycorn.
A baker came and bought his dust-
That was a madman, I'll be sworn!
He burned my hero in a rage
If twisting flames John Barleycorn.
A brewer came by and stole his heart-
Alas, that ever I was born!
He thrust it in a brimming vat
And drowned my dear John Barleycorn.
And now I travel narrow roads,
My hungry feet are dark and worn,
But no-one in this winter world
Has seen my dancer, Barleycorn."
I took a bannock from my bag-
Lord, how her empty mouth did yawn!
Says I "Your starving days are done
For here's your lost John Barleycorn."
I took a bottle from my pouch,
I poured out whisky in a horn.
Says I, "Put by your grief, for here
Is the merry blood of Barleycorn."
She ate, she drank, she laughed, she danced,
And home with me she did return.
By candle-light in my ingle-nook
She wept no more for Barleycorn.
George was not a well man, and when he discovered the booze it became the love of his life. He was a boozer rather than an alcoholic, but only because his constitution wouldn't have permitted great indulgence.
After the war the pubs opened again and he had a couple of pints, which he said was "a revelation; they flushed my veins with happiness; they washed away all cares and shyness and worries. I remember thinking to myself 'If I could have two pints of beer every afternoon, life would be a great happiness'".
I usually write more notes than this, but it's late and my wife is after something. If you're interested check back again tomorrow, when there'll probably be more ramblings for you to read.
The painting at the end is Mary Magdalene by Peter Paul Rubens.
As I was ploughing in my field
The hungriest furrow ever torn
Followed my plough and she did cry
"Have you seen my mate John Barleycorn?"
Says I "Has he got a yellow beard?
Is he always whispering night and morn?
Does he up and dance when the wind is high?"
Says she "That's my John Barleycorn."
One day they took a cruel knife
(Oh I am weary and forlorn!)
They struck him at his golden prayer!
They killed my priest, John Barleycorn.
They laid him on a wooden cart,
Of all his summer-glory shorn,
And threshers broke with stick and stave
The shining bones of Barleycorn.
The miller's stone went round and round,
They rolled him underneath with scorn;
The miller filled a hundred sacks
With the crushed pride of Barleycorn.
A baker came and bought his dust-
That was a madman, I'll be sworn!
He burned my hero in a rage
If twisting flames John Barleycorn.
A brewer came by and stole his heart-
Alas, that ever I was born!
He thrust it in a brimming vat
And drowned my dear John Barleycorn.
And now I travel narrow roads,
My hungry feet are dark and worn,
But no-one in this winter world
Has seen my dancer, Barleycorn."
I took a bannock from my bag-
Lord, how her empty mouth did yawn!
Says I "Your starving days are done
For here's your lost John Barleycorn."
I took a bottle from my pouch,
I poured out whisky in a horn.
Says I, "Put by your grief, for here
Is the merry blood of Barleycorn."
She ate, she drank, she laughed, she danced,
And home with me she did return.
By candle-light in my ingle-nook
She wept no more for Barleycorn.
