The French drink wine, the English tay.

The Yankee gulps his hot black coffee.

The child drinks milk nine times a day.

The Scotsman sips his whiskey toddy.

You can keep your wine and keep your tay.

My curse on him that gives me coffee.

I'll have porter if I may.

It makes me feel content and happy.

chorus:

Porter quaffed down with a laugh,

The gentry have their aching livers.

Water is alright in tay,

For fish and things that swim in rivers.

The poor man and the beggar too,

The poet in the corner thinking,

If they had money enough to spend,

It's pints of porter they'd be drinking.

chorus:

The miser hoards and stores his gold.

The bee collects the summer honey.

When that miser's dead and cold,

Someone else will kiss his money.

chorus:

Some go in for counting beads.

More go in for chasing women.

The scholar stays at home and reads.

Give me the glass with porter brimmin'.