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His colour ſicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To ſhew their deadly rage.
They've ta'en 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,
He cruſh'd him 'tween twa ſtones.
