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And they have taen his very heart's blood, Ang drunk 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 joys! 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' fear 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.

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

Green grow the Rashes.

A FRAGMENT.

THERE's nought but care on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o'man, And 'twere na for the lasses, O?

CHORUS

Green grow the rashes, O, Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, Were spent amang the lasses, O.