| There were three farmers in the north,
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| as they were passing by they swore an oath so mighty
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| oh that Barleycorn should die
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| one of them said: drown him
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| and the other sad: hang him high
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| for whoever will stick to Barleycorn
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| a-begging he will die
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| they put poor Barley into a sack
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| an a cold an rainy day
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| and took him out to cornfields
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| and buried him in the clay
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| frost and snow began to melt
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| and dew began to fall
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| when Barleygrain put up his head
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| and he soon surprised them all
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| being in the summer season
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| and the harvest coming on it’s the time he stands up in the field with a beard like any man
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| the reaper then came with his sickle
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| and used me barbarously
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| he cut me in the middle so small
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| and he cut me above the knee
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| the next came was the binder
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| and he looked at me with a frown
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| for in the middle there was a thistle
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| which pulled his courage down
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| the farmer came with his pitch fork
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| and he pierced me to the heart
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| like a thief, a rogue or a highwayman
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| they tied me to the cart
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| the thresher came with his big flail
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| and soon he broke my bones
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| could grieve the heart of any man
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| to hear my sighs and moans
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| the next thing that they’ve done
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| to me they steeped me in the well
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| they left me there for a day
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| and night until I began to swell
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| and next thing that they’ve done
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| to me they dried me in a kiln
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| they used me ten times worse,
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| than that they ground me in the mill
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| they used me in the kichen,
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| they used me in the hall
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| oh they used me in the parlour
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| among the ladies all
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| the Barleygrain is a comical grain,
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| it makes men sigh and moan
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| for when they drink a glass or two
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| they forget their wives and home
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| the drunkard is a dirty man,
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| he used me worst of all
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| he drank me up in his dirty mouth
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| an he tumbled against the wall |