Nor because it produces good brandy and wine;
’Tis not the sweet odour of pipe nor cigar,
Oh! no—’tis a something more cozie by far!
’Tis that friends of the Hell and the Turf are all nigh,
Who’d drink till the cellar itself should be dry,
And teach you to feel how existence may please,
When pass’d in the presence of cronies like these.
Sweet Sign of the Fiddle! how long could I dwell
In thy tap full of smoke, with the friends I love well!
When bailiffs no longer the alleys infest,