Precious to me – it is the Dinner Bell. Oh blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer.
I can not sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, ‘Tis that I can’t remember how They go.
Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.
I’ve read in many a novel, that unless they’ve souls that grovel– Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.
Oh Beer! Oh Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass! Names that should be on every infant’s tongue! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass, And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?
The heart which grief hath cankered, Hath one unfailing remedy – the Tankard.
Meaning, however, is no great matter.
But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?
Life is with such all beer and skittles.They are not difficult to pleaseAbout their victuals.
Should ever anything be missed – milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy – the cat’s pitched into with a boot or anything that’s handy.
I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e’en be too sunshiny.