[Ill 0144]
Barleycorn, my jo John!
They say that we must part!
'Twill mend my stomach, maybe,
But, O! it breaks my heart!
I hoped that we should grow old
Cheek by jowl together,
Boozing by the fireside
Through the wintry weather;--
With white hair and red face,
Full of dreams and liquor,
Watching from an armchair
The firelight flicker;--
But Barleycorn, my jo John,
Fare ye well forever!--
The preachers have my soul, John,
The doctors have my liver!
And I shall have an old age
Dry and dull as virtue--
But never think, my dear friend,
I'm happy to desert you!
Barleycorn, my jo John!
To think that we should part--.
They say 'twill save my eyesight,
But, O; it breaks my heart!