But, soft 'n' sentimental, when the long, cold
evenin's come,
I'd dream me nibs was dronking' to the height
of his ambition,
With rights of suction over all the breweries
there are,
Where barrels squat, like Brahma gods, in
Mother Hardy's bar.

I had me fit of longin' on the night the Ger-
mans came,
All breathin' lioke a gas attack. The air
was halcholic.
We smelt 'em in the darkness, 'n' our rage
went up in flame.
It was envy, squealin' envy, put the ginger
in the frolic.
We shot 'em full of spelter, then went over it
to spite
The swines what drunk the liquor that was
ours by common right.

"If this ain't stopped, 'n' quick," sez we,
"there won't be left a drop
To celebrate the vict'ry when we capture
their position."
I'm prowlin' blind, when sharp there comes a
fond, familiar plop-
Swung round a post, a German in a pitiful
condition