That furnishest
A cure for all our griefs, a barm for all our—loaves.
Oh! Sir John Barleycorn, thou glorious Knight of Malt-a,
May thy fame never alter:
Great Britain's Bacchus! pardon all our failings,
And with thy Ale ease all our ailings.
I've emptied many a barrel in my time—
And, may be, shall empty many more
Before
O'er the Styx I sail.