A cure for all our griefs: a barm for all our—loaves!
Oh! Sir John Barleycorn, thou glorious Knight of Malt-a
May thy fame never alter!
Great Britain's Bacchus! pardon all our failings:
And with thy ale ease all our ailings!
I've emptied many a barrel in my time: and may be
Shall empty many more
Before
O'er Styx I sail:
Ev'n when an infant I was fond of Ale: