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The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His hending joints, and drooping head, Show'd he began to fail.
His colour 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 cudgel'd him full sore: They laid him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er' and oʻer.
The Silled 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, oʻer a scorching flame, The marrow of his banes; But a Miller us'd his worst of all, For he crush't him 'tween twa stanes!
M2
