They are drawn, I answer there,
Where our lips their thirst forget,
That’s the place for heavy wet!
Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry,
Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I;
To the Blue Posts let us go,
There we’ll clouds of backey blow;
And, while we our cares forget,
All the year quaff heavy wet!
W. T. Moncrieff.