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!