Le grain d’orge et le lin

Le grain d’orge a beaucoup à souffrir des hommes. D’abord on le jette dans la terre pour qu’il y pourrisse ; ensuite, quand il est mûr, on le coupe, on le bat en grange et on le sèche, on le fait cuire pour en tirer de la bière et le faire avaler aux ivrognes. Le lin est aussi martyr à sa manière. Quand il est mûr on l’arrache, on le rouit, on le sèche, on le bat, on le teille, on le sérance, on le file, on le tisse, on en fabrique de la toile pour en faire des chemises, des souquenilles, etc. Quand celles-ci sont déchirées, l’on en fait des torchons, ou l’on y met des emplâtres pour être appliquées sur les plaies, les abcès ; l’on en fait des mèches, ou bien on les vend au papetier qui les broie, les dissout et en fait du papier. Ce papier sert à écrire, à imprimer, à faire des jeux de carte ; enfin il est déchiré et employé aux plus vils usages.

Martin Luther

There were three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head;

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;

His head weel armed wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Showed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgelled him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned 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 appeared,

They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise;

'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy:

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns