The Idiot

%%pageheight 11in
%%stretchlast no
X:1
T:John Barleycorn
T:(The Drunken Idiot)
H:Dance composed by the Hounds in the style of Red Stags
C:Stan Rogers
C:words by Jon Berger
M:4/4
L:1/8
Q:1/4=76
K:D
%%partsfont Times-Bold 16.0
%%MIDI channel 1
%%MIDI control 7 50	% volume = 50
%%MIDI program 41       % General MIDI violin
%%MIDI transpose 0
%%MIDI gchordoff
P:A
d/2e/2 | fa ag/2f/2 e/d/e fA | Bddc B3 A | Bd dc/2B/2 Ad d>e | f/g/a gf e3 d/2e/2 | fa ag/2f/2 e/d/e fA | Bddc B3 A | Bd dc/2B/2 Ad d>e | f/g/a fe d3 ||
w: 1.~John_ | Bar-ley-corn to the sea_ has gone in~a | ship both stout and new, the | thirst to slake of_ Cap-tain Drake and | all_ his loy-al crew.  To_ | ven-ture brave o'er_ wind_ and wave, the | Span-iard for to halt, and | though he die of_ Span-ish grape, he'll live_ as Eng-lish malt. ||
w:2.~John_ Bar-ley-corn's to the court--ing gone all | dressed in fine ar-ray, in | pew-ter clad from_ toe to head to | win_ a la-dy gay.  The | po-e-try that_ he_ dec-laims will | stand him in good stead, for~the | la-dies fair do_ all de-clare they | love_ it more than bread.
w:3.~John_ | Bar-ley-corn's to the hang--man gone and~the | rea-son I'll un-fold: 'Tis~for | rob-bing hon-est_ Eng-lish-men of~their | sil--ver and their gold.  In a | grave un-known by_ cross_ nor stone John | Bar-ley will be lain, 'til~the | rain-y days have_ gone their ways~and he ris--es up a-gain.
P:B
d | bb ba/2g/2 aa a>g| f/e/d de f3 d | bb ba/2g/2 aa a>g | f/e/d gf e3 d/2e/2 | fa ag/2f/2 e/d/e fA | Bddc B3 A | Bd dc/2B/2 Ad d>e | f/g/a fe d3 |]
w:So~we'll | cut him down and we'll bind him round~and we'll | serve_ him worse than that, for~we'll | grind his bones be--tween two stones and~we'll | bung_ him in a vat. Then we'll | drink his health in_ nut--brown ale, and~we'll | raise our glas-ses high, for~be- | fore that he can_ live a-gain John Bar--ley-corn must die!

Graphic created by abcm2ps.

MIDI file created by abc2midi.

The tune was written and sung by Stan Rogers. MOTley Morris uses this tune, with Jon Berger's words to John Barleycorn for the dance The Drunken Idiot.

The John Barleycorn words, written by Jon Berger, are:

John Barleycorn

John Barleycorn to the sea has gone
In a ship both stout and new,
The thirst to slake of Captain Drake And all his loyal crew.
To venture brave o'er wind and wave,
The Spaniard for to halt,
And though he die of Spanish grape
He'll live as English malt.

Chorus:
So we'll cut him down and we'll bind him round
And we'll serve him worse than that,
For we'll grind his bones between two stones
And we'll bung him in a vat.
Then we'll drink his health in nut-brown ale,
And we'll raise our glasses high,
For before that he can live again
John Barleycorn must die!

John Barleycorn's to the courting gone
All dressed in fine array,
In pewter clad from toe to head
To win a lady gay.
The poetry that he declaims
Will stand him in good stead,
For the ladies fair do all declare
They love it more than bread.

[Chorus]

John Barleycorn's to the hangman gone
And the reason I'll unfold:
'Tis for robbing honest Englishmen
Of their silver and their gold.
In a grave unknown by cross nor stone
John Barley will be lain,
'Til the rainy days have gone their ways
And he rises up again.
[Chorus]

Stan Rogers's original words are:

The Idiot

I often take these nightshift walks when the foreman's not around.
I turn my back on the coolant stacks and make for open ground.
Far out beyond the tankfarm fence where the gas flare makes no sound.
I forget the stink and I always think back to that eastern town.

I remember back six years ago this western life I chose.
When everyday the news would say some factory's going to close.
Well I could have stayed to take the dole but I'm not one of those.
I take nothing free and that makes me an idiot I suppose.

So I bid farewell to the eastern town I nevermore will see.
But work I must, so I eat this dust and breathe refinery.
Oh, I miss the green and the woods and streams and I don't like cowboy clothes,
But I like being free and that makes me an idiot I suppose.

So come all ye fine young fellers who've been beaten to the ground.
This western life's no paradise but it's better than lying down.
Oh, the streets aren't clean and there's nothing green and the hills are dirty brown;
But the government dole will rot your soul back there in your hometown.

So bid farewell to the eastern town you nevermore will see.
There's self-respect and a steady cheque in this refinery.
You will miss the green and the woods and streams and the dust will fill your nose;
But you'll be free and just like me an idiot I suppose.

Last modified: Wed Aug 20 11:51:39 2003 by Jeff Bigler