I love, I love—oh, how I love to bide,
With a flowing gin-cask by my side;
Where every quartern gives relief,
We whistle a stave, and drown all grief;
And when our browns to the host we show,
The gin-cock then will merrily flow.
I never tasted watery swipes,
But I always found they gave me the gripes;
So back I flew to my favourite juice,
Until my sorrows were all reduced.