John Barleycorn Jethro Tull

There were three men, came out of the west
Their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow:
John Barleycorn must die!
Well, they've ploughed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
Threw clods upon his head
Till these three men were satisfied
John Barleycorn was dead

They've let him lie for a long long time
Till the rains from heaven did fall
And little sir John sprang up his head
And so amazed them all
They let him lie till the midsummer's day
Till he looked both pale and wan, oh
Then little Sir John has grown a long long beard
And so became a man

They have hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off at the knee
They rolled and they tied him around the waist
Serving him most him barbarously
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
To prick him to the heart
And the loader he has served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart