A plague on these musty old lubbers, Who tell us to fast and to think, And with patience fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but water to drink; A cann of good stuff had they twigg'd it, Would have set them with pleasure a gog, In spite of the rules Of the schools, The old fools Would all of them swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.
My father, when last I from Guinea, Returned with abundance of wealth, Cried Jack, never be such a ninny As to drink—says I, Father your health; So I shew'd him the stuff, and he twigg'd it, And it set the old cadger agog, And he swigg'd, and mother And sister, and brother, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog.
'Tother day as the chaplain was preaching, Behind him I curiously slunk, And while he our duty was teaching, How we should never get drunk, I shew'd him the stuff and he twigg'd it, And it soon set his reverence agog, And he swigg'd and Nick swigg'd And Ben swigg'd and Dick swigg'd And I swigg'd, all of us swigged it, And swore there was nothing like grog.
Then trust me there's nothing like drinking, So pleasant on this side the grave; It keeps the unhappy from thinking, And makes e'en more valiant the brave, As for me the moment I twigg'd it, The good stuff has so set me agog Sick or well, late and early, Wind fouly or fairly, Helm a-lee or a wether, Four hours together. I've constantly swigg'd it, And damme, there's nothing like grog.
