So I have now altered the format to one I feel more comfortable with, whether it meets approval or not remains be seen.

I have left the original post up for comparison.

The new verse consists of quintains, three lines of iambic tetrameter, one of trimeter and final line in pentameter, the penultimate and final stanzas being left as original.

Original text of the preceding post...

With humble apologies to Robert Burns for my surreptitious purloining of the dureful setting of his ballad “John Barleycorn”

Needless to say, it is a much-told tale.

Many have attempted it, few if any, coming near to a successful alternative to Burns’ own version.

In deference to the great man, I have refrained from even attempting to copy his own inimitable style: or his particular mastery of the much earlier Habbie Simpson format...

Instead, I have tried to offer a complete contrast, to what has proved to be an immensely popular ballad format.

Wherein, I have opted for the simpler iambic tetrameter tercet with its pentameter last lines.
I know only too well, that its repetitive rhythm can get boring without some form of dramatic monologue to maintain the momentum, and that there are many free-verse exponents who will find fault with its somewhat unvaried story line.

Nevertheless, no poem is ever truly finished; new ideas may yet occur to enliven the tale of ‘Uisge Beatha’...

However, no one can (I hope) then accuse me of attempting to gild Burns’ masterly lilium by ignoring such a spiel as in this fairly anglicised form of colloquial Lallans, a type of Scots English that predates American poets and their style of English by several hundred years, and is still in current use today by Scots as their ‘Ain Mither Tongue’...

In order to help readers understand the slightly more difficult words of the Scots vernacular, here is a brief summary of English equivalents.

Uisge Beatha- Gaelic for ‘Water of Life’
Barley Bree - malt liquor made from barley
Stooks - Sheaves of barley stacked together
Dinnae fash. - not to get upset
Pot still - the only way to make real malt whisky.
Ferintosh - a very fine whisky-.Scotland’s first legal distillery
Hordeum -genetic name for barley
Thole - fearful.
Malt - sprouted barley grain.
The gauger -The excise man
Een - eyes.

The Makin’s o’ Malts ain Barley Bree. Amended Version.

Ah! cognac grieve yer case nae mair
Or ranklin’s o’ red grape’s ain share.
Whit ither wid sic purpose dare
Set yer guid sel sae fair.
in challenge tae thae rights o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer whit sad king sat his-sel down
Tae drink red wine in his ain town.
Perhaps his wis nae sae renown
Or worldly wise a crown.
As get a grain o’ wit, frae Uisge Beatha.

It wis jist like a yester’s day
When ye were but, wee seeds in May.
Now ye do give greens fine array
A glist o’ yer bouquet.
Tae be the pride o’ malts ain Uisge Beatha.

Ye standin there yer heid bent low
Whit worthy gift yer goodness glow.
To challenge so Gaul’s best Bordeaux
Wi’ nature’s trusted show.
In makin’ o’ the finest Uisge Beatha.

Fer now the yellowed days are here
Yon scythe-man too, he seeks appear.
Tae stack yer stooks in mony tier
An’ nae a weather fear.
As wait yer fate in still’s o’ Uisge Beatha.

They threshed ye tae yer bones were sair
Then scalped ye o’ yer ain fine hair.
Whit ither mien, indigence share
That gies man his own care.
In pains that goes to makin Uisge Beatha.

Ah! gan’s ye proud John Barleycorn
Yer heid nae mair six spears adorn.
Whit dignity they’ve frae ye shorn
Yer back as ye were born.
In fervent need- o’ stills–ain Uisge Beatha.

They dry ye oot tae brittle bare
Yer life blood gone, nae mair tae tare.
Whit new foul deeds wid they sae dare
take frae yer token share.
Tae tap rich vein - o’ fiery Uisge Beatha.

When you’ve nae mair, a mind tae plead
Yer alma mater’s dire silence cede.
Whit touch o’ kindness its ain need
That gie ye sin tae bleed.
When Deil’s set on distillin’ Uisge Beatha.

They douk ye in thae waters grim
Tae let ye sink or floatin’ swim.
Nae grace be theirs by pastor’s whim
Tae gie sensed wake a hymn
In barley bree‘s ferment, o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer when they drag ye oot half drowned
Yer wee bit sprouted shoots a crowned.
Tae dry on heated racks attuned
Where mony rakes abound.
In mans’ own rites o’ makin Uisge Beatha.

Again, they dry ye oot sae well
In tortures, sae akin tae Hell.
Nae mair last chance yer life tae swell
Or being’s voice tae tell.
In fates, ill- guised pot-still, o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer now thae miller’s hand’s aboot
His twa great stones are sitting mute.
They waiting on their life’s thru put.
Tae blend away bloodroot.
In grindin’ malted grains fer Uisge Beatha.

It’s now they make you into mash
So all yer enzymes dinnae fash.
It be nae guid if they should clash
Wi’ peaty water’s splash.
In makins single malt’s ain Uisge Beatha.

They boil ye, tae yer spirits rise
It’s craft be gift o’ thae sae wise
Nae ullage takes them by surprise;
Or gauger ony lies.
In tippler’s wee sip o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer now malts pure ain essence seen
clear clarity of such vitae’s lien.
Gies thought to man o’ many scene
Of whit might have once been.
In amber’s Ferintosh, -o’ Uisge Beatha.

Afore Oporto’s best, is patent dry
Its mony casks are filled sae high.
To let a guid twelve years gan by
Wi’ mony a long sigh.
In aptness o’ its rarer Uisge Beatha.

Whit makes ye weep wi’ tear’d eye
When god wi ‘his ain purpose ply.
Tae gie remorse nae right deny
Its test o’ truth or lie.
Pot still’s conjuration o’ its Uisge Beatha.

Far frae the gauger’s prying een
Yon wee pot still, it’s seldom seen.
Whit pittance could its tax sae glean.
Or royal mind demean.
A man’s wee nightcap dram o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer when life’s worries take their toll
A hardship seeks itsel tae thole.
Whit better way oorsel’s console.
Than wi a glass or twa o’ Uisge Beatha.

So hold a toast in your right hand
Raise high that glass its gift demand.
Let so Hordeum make its stand.
Tae Scotland’s finest, malt o’ Uisge Beatha.

Mor.

Original Version.

Ah! cognac grieve yer case nae mair
Or ranklin’s o’ red grape’s ain share.
Whit ither wid sic purpose dare
Set challenge tae thae rights o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer whit sad king sat his-sel down
Tae drink red wine in his ain town
Perhaps his wis nae sae renown
As get a grain o’ wit, frae Uisge Beatha.

It wis jist like a yester’s day
When ye were but, wee seeds in May.
Now ye do give greens fine array
Tae be the pride o’ malts ain Uisge Beatha.

Ye standin there yer heid bent low
Whit worthy gift yer goodness show.
To challenge so Gaul’s best Bordeaux
In makin’ o’, the finest Uisge Beatha.

Fer now the yellowed days are here
Yon scythe-man too, he seeks appear.
Tae stack yer stooks in mony tier
An’ wait yer fate in still’s o’ Uisge Beatha.

They threshed ye tae yer bones were sair
Then scalped ye o’ yer ain fine hair
Whit ither mien, indigence share.
In pains that goes to makin Uisge Beatha.

Ah! gan’s ye proud John Barleycorn
Yer heid nae mair six spears adorn.
Whit dignity they’ve frae ye shorn I
n fervent need- o’ stills–ain Uisge Beatha.

They dry ye oot tae brittle bare
Yer life blood gone, nae mair tae share.
Whit new foul deeds wid they sae dare
Tae tap rich vein - o’ fiery Uisge Beatha.

When you’ve nae mair, a mind tae plead
Yer gasping souls, in dire silence cede.
Whit touch o’ kindness its ain need
When Deil’s set on distillin’ Uisge Beatha.

They douk ye in thae waters grim
Tae let ye sink or floatin’ swim.
Nae grace be theirs by pastor’s whim
In barley bree‘s ferment, o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer when they drag ye oot half drowned
Yer wee bit sprouted shoots a crowned.
Tae dry on heated racks attuned
In mans’ own rites o’ makin Uisge Beatha.

Again, they dry ye oot sae well
In tortures, sae akin tae Hell.
Nae mair last chance yer life tae swell
In fates, ill- guised pot still, o’ Uisge Beatha
.
Fer now thae miller’s hand’s aboot
His twa great stones are sitting mute.
They waiting on their life’s thru put.
In grindin’ malted grains fer Uisge Beatha

. It’s now they make you into mash
So all yer enzymes dinnae fash.
It be nae guid if they should clash
In makins single malt’s ain Uisge Beatha.

They boil ye, tae yer spirits rise
Its craft be gift o’ thae sae wise
Nae ullage takes them by surprise
In tippler’s wee sip o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer now malts pure ain essence seen
clear clarity of such vitae’s lien.
Gies thought to man o’ many scene
its’ amber’s Ferintosh, -o’ Uisge Beatha.

Afore Oporto’s best, is patent dry
Its mony casks are filled sae high.
To let a guid twelve years gan by
In aptness o’ its rarer Uisge Beatha.

Whit makes ye weep wi’ tear’d eye
When god wi ‘his ain purpose ply.
Tae gie remorse nae right deny
Pot still’s conjuration o’ its Uisge Beatha.

Far frae the gauger’s prying een
Yon wee pot still, it’s seldom seen.
Whit pittance could its tax sae glean.
On man’s wee nightcap dram o’ Uisge Beatha.

Fer when life’s worries take their toll
An hardship seeks itsel tae thole
Whit better way oorsel’s console
Than wi a glass or twa o’ Uisge Beatha.

So hold a toast in your right hand
Raise high that glass its gift demand.
Let so Hordeum make its stand
Tae Scotland’s finest, malt o’ Uisge Beatha.

Mor.