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.