The heart which grief hath cankered, Hath one unfailing remedy - the Tankard.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry, Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?

But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny.

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 auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

Meaning, however, is no great matter.

Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.