His choicest drink was 'home gooseberry,'
On 'swipes,' skim-milk, and smallest beer, he
Scanted rhyme for his Tipperary.
Had he imbibed good old Madeira,
Drank 'pottle-deep' of golden sherry,
Of Falstaff's sack, or ripe canary,
No rhyme had lack'd for Tipperary.
Or had his tastes been literary,
He might have found extemporary,
Without the aid of dictionary,