The tragic end of John Barleycorn
This poem appeared in the Herald on February 10, 1905
Mulguy enjoyed her morning meal
With something like repose,
When forthwith came that frenzied peal —
''Fire! Come! Get tackle, hose!''
''Tambowie's Whisky'' smells fou' strong —
See Yonder flames rear high;
Needless to sound the dinner-gong,
''Fire! Fire! each one did cry.
A thousand voices rent the air
As up the spirits went,
Whilst greater, grander grew the flare
Which none could circumvent.
As the boy stood 'midst ''the battle's wreck
When all but he had fled''
So stood ''John Barley'' (by the neck),
Held fast, with feverish dread.
Envelop'd thus with smoke and flame
He bravely met his death.
When out his life blood trickling came,
Each witness held his breath —
All save a few, who carried cans,
And some with empty bottles,
Whilst not a few used frying pans
To quench their thirsty throttles.
Thus perish'd ''John'' — his ebbing veins
Distill'd through ''Quaint Mulguy,''
But, reckless of his burning pains,
Were those who drain'd them dry.
The loss is great, his mourners weep,
And mingle with the crowd,
Still those who drank his life's blood sleep
Outside without a ''shroud.''
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