John Barleycorn is both a traditional song and a poem by the famous Scottish poet Robert Burns. They describe the process of growing and harvesting the barley for the making of beer. Other grains can be added, like oats and wheat; flavourings other than hops can be used, but barley is the very heart of all beers, and beer cannot be made without barley. John Barleycorn celebrates the age old British tradition of brewing and enjoyment of beer, something that this shop is dedicated to preserving. Not as a self-conscience act, but as an embedded part of our culture. So next time you raise a glass to your lips to savour the deep, complex and so very satisfying pleasure of a good beer, propose a toast to John Barleycorn, who laid down his life in such a deserving cause.
 
The Ballad of John Barleycorn
There was three men come out of the West
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die.

They ploughed, they sowed, they harrowed him in
Throwing clods all on his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead.

They've left him in the ground for a very long time
Till the rains from heaven did fall
Then little Sir John's sprung up his head
And so amazed them all

They've left him in the ground till the Midsummer
Till he's grown both pale and wan
Then little Sir John's grown a long, long beard
And so become a man.

They hire'd men with their scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee.
They've bound him and tied him around the waist
Serving him most barb'rously.

They hire'd men with their sharp pitch-forks
To prick him to the heart
But the drover he served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart.

They've rolled him around and around the field
Till they came unto a barn
And there they made a solemn mow
Of Little Sir John Barleycorn

They've hire'd men with their crab-tree sticks
To strip him skin from bone
But the miller, he served him worse than that,
For he's ground him between two stones.

Here's Little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
And in the glass
But Little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl's
Proved the stronger man at last

For the huntsman he can't hunt the fox
Nor so loudly blow his horn
And the tinker, he can't mend Kettles or pots
Without a little of Sir John Barleycorn
Traditional

 
John Barleycorn. A Ballad
There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His coulour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a Miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns (1759-1796)