They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But the miller used him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they have strain'd his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round,
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
So, neighbours all, make sad lament.
And sorely weep and mourn,
For now you've heard the doleful end
Of bold John Barleycorn.
25. The Captive Lark.
'Tis merry morn, the sun has shed
His light upon the mountain head;
The golden dews are sparkling now,
On heath and hill, on flower and bough.
And many a happy song is heard
From ev'ry gay rejoicing bird
But never more alas, shall I,
Soar up and sing in yonder sky.
Thro' these harsh wires I view in vain
The ray that once awoke my strain;
A prisoner here, I fret and pine,
My useless wings their strength decline.
Sad is my fate, to see the stars
Pass one by one before my bars,
And know when dawn returneth, I
No more may sing in yonder sky.
