Why, if tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's way to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think.
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
"Oh Mother dear, I'm over here
and I'm never coming back.
What keeps me here is the Beer, the Women and the Craic!"