Mention not the wines of Medoc, nor the vintage of Bordeaux,

Or the Burgundy that rivals e'en the ruby in its flow;

Though the growers of Epernay and the merry men of Rheims,

Pour champagne that holds the sunlight in exhilarating streams;

There's a finer nobler tipple, that the Briton's heart doth cheer,

And he clings with fond affection to his draught or bottled beer.

Amber Rudesheimer charms us wandering by the haunted Rhine,

Sparkling Hock near Ehrenbreitstein is a mighty pleasant wine;

In agreement with the German we have vowed we loved full well,

To behold the bubbles flashing on a goblet of Moselle;

But the Briton hugs his tankard, and would count the man an ass

Who held not in highest honour nectar from the vats of Bass.

Port is worthy of acceptance, once men made the bottle spin;

Sherry hath a welcome flavour when the filberts have come in:

Scotsmen have been seen imbibing in the mountains of the north,

What is known as whiskey-toddy in the lands beside the Forth:

But the Englishmen will tell you that for really sterling worth—

Bass's beer can beat all liquids that were ever made on earth.