These words appeared in Punch, Vol. 73, Oct. 20, 1877, page 169: OCTOBER All ye who would drink, And yet stop on the brink Of the chasm 'twixt drunken and sober, Throw out to the slums All your brandies and rums, And stick fast to good honest October! Your Frenchman is vain Of his frothy champagne, Of his burgundy and his Bordeaux, sirs! A staggering pot Of October, I wot, Would soon send all the lot down below, sirs! Your clarets and hocks And your sour German bocks May be all very well when you're ill, sirs, But I venture to think That old Johnny Bull's drink Is the brave old October-brew still, sirs! Where find you for muscle, Or pluck in a tussle, A man who with Bull is compeer, sirs? And if you'd know why, 'Tis because when he's dry, He's content with a draught of good beer, sirs!
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