Thompson's shop on Holborn Hill is crowded like a fair,

All the taps continually running out are there;

Swing swang go the doors, while some pop out and some pop in,

Foreigners must surely think that John Bull lives on Gin.

Gin, Gin, sweet, sweet Gin,

There's no drops like Gin.

Gin, Gin, Deadley's Old Tom Gin.

Gin, Gin, Deadley's Old Tom Gin.