ALL ye who would drink, And yet stop on the brink Of the chasm ‘twixt drunk and sober, Throw out to the slums All your brandies and Rums And stick fast to good honest October! Your Frenchman is vain Of his frothy Champagne– Of his Burgundy and his Bordeaux, Sirs! A staggering pot Of October, I wot, Would soon send all the lot down below, Sirs! Your Clarets and Hocks, And your sour German bocks, May all be very well when you’re ill, Sirs! But I venture to think, That old JOHNNY BULL’s drink Is the brave old October-brew, Sirs! Where find you for muscle, Or pluck in a tussle, A man who with BULL is compeer, Sirs? And if you’d know why– ‘Tis because when he’s dry, He’s content with a draught of good Beer, Sirs!
Punch, or the London Charivari, October 20, 1877, p.169.