Weary traveler seek no wells,
Here the whiskey river swells.
From mountains high above the plain,
Golden clouds bring golden rain,
Filling hollows, holes where dwells
The barley sprite and all his train.
Barley sprite who once was king,
King who died and rose again,
Proud and tall in blooming spring,
In jealousy the crows would sing.
But came the scythe and iron’s reign,
Then to the ground the king fell slain.
Smashed and mashed and set to boil,
His corpse was drained of all its oil,
So that some weary traveler might
Love the life of the barley sprite.