Barleycorn, my jo John!
They say that we must part!
'Twill mend my stomach, maybe,
But, O! it breaks my heart!
I hoped that we should grow old
Cheek by jowl together,
Boozing by the fireside
Through the wintry weather;—
With white hair and red face,
Full of dreams and liquor,
Watching from an armchair
The firelight flicker;—

But Barleycorn, my jo John,
Fare ye well forever!—
The preachers have my soul, John,
The doctors have my liver!
And I shall have an old age
Dry and dull as virtue—
But never think, my dear friend,
I'm happy to desert you!
Barleycorn, my jo John!
To think that we should part—.
They say 'twill save my eyesight,
But, O; it breaks my heart!