Av it’s not mixed with too much could wather.
Do ye like thim small dhrinks? Dhrink away by all manes—
I wonst thried Ginger Beer to my sorrow—
Ye’ll be tuck jist as I was, wid all sorts of pains,
And ye’ll see what ye’re like on the morrow.
Ye’ll find ye can’t ate—no, nor walk—for the wind;
Ye’ll have cheeks jist the colour of morthar;
Av ye call in the docthor he’ll jist recommind
A hot tumbler of Whisky and Wather.
Av the colic you get, or the cramp in your legs,