His colour sickened more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.
They took a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee,
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up then a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
And heaved in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.
They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all--
He crushed him 'tween two stones.
And they have taken his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
ROBERT BURNS.
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