A jolly old tar of the true English breed,
Who to money or gunpowder never gave heed,
At the pump hard at labour, sweat ran in full tide;
He'd rather good brandy'd run down his inside.
Then into a bason he wrung his shirt out,
In the stile of a scullion who wrings a dish-clout.

''Tis pity such liquor as this should be lost;
I'll send it directly the way it went first.
Its part of myself,' he exultingly cried,
'And he's a great fool who himself throws aside.'
Then the rum-bottle seiz'd, with a leap like a frog,
Mix'd, and drank it, and said 'it made excellent grog.'