I found some of this on a bartowel in a restaurant in Vancouver. I don't know the original author, and I've added liberally to the verses and added a chorus. The folk process; love it or leave it.
THE MAN BEHIND THE BAR
(trad-anon, adapted by M. Waldman c97)
Now give me your attention, some quiet if you please,
There's something needing mention, so set yourselves at ease.
I've come to sing the praises of a man we all hold dear
The publican who serves to us, our whiskey, wine and beer.
CHORUS: He's the Rock of old Gibraltar, he's the road to Mandalay,
Eternally dependable, he works his life away,
Never failing in his duty, he's the best of us by far,
Good health to him, and wealth to him/ the man behind the bar.
(Raise beers to him, here's cheers to him/A pint or glass, full to the brim) For the man behind the bar
. He deserves a hero's medal for the many lives he's saved,
And upon the role of honour, his name should be engraved.
He deserves a lot of credit for the way he stands the strain
For the yarns he has to swallow would drive most of us insane.
He pays the highest license, he pays the highest rent,
He battles daily with the bank and pays their ten percent,
When it comes to paying bills he must be Johnny on the spot,
And he pays for all the drink he sells whether you pay him or not.
Though he's scorned by representatives in every parliament,
To blame for every stinking sot who ever drank the rent,
They'll gladly belly to his bar to tipple and relax,
And line their bulging pockets with his heavy liquor tax.
There's the clergy in the pulpit, and the preachers in the hall
Who assure him that the churches are against him one and all
But every time they plan to hold a ballot or bazaar
They start by selling tickets to the man behind the bar
Now when you walk into his bar, he'll greet you with a smile
Be you worker dressed in overalls or a banker dressed in style,
If you're Irish, English, Scot, or Welsh, it doesn't matter what
He'll treat you like a gentleman until you prove you're not
While pulling stout may seem to be his only lot in life,
You'd never even know he had a daughter or a wife,
But lest you get too tipsy and your flirting gets too far,
You'd better have a running start on the man behind the bar
When he retires a job well done, to await six feet of soil,
Discards his coat and apron, no more on earth to toil,
When St. Peter sees him coming, he will hold the gates ajar
For he'll know who's been through Hell on Earth, it's the man behind the bar.