the ballad of tantivy mucker-maffick
oh italian gin is a mother's curse,
and the beer of france is septic,
drinking bourbon in spain is the lonely domain
of the saint and the epileptic,
white lightning has fueled up many a hearse
in the mountains where ridge-runner dwell--
its a brew begot in a poison pot,
and mulled with the hammers of hell!
Oh- Tantivy's been drunk in many a place,
from here to the uttermost isle,
and if he should refuse any a chance to booze,
may i die with an hoary-eyed smile!
he's been ossified in oceans of grog,
in the haunts of the wobbly whale--
he's been half-seas over from durban to dover,
wiv four shaky sheets to the gale.
for in london fog or sahara's sun,
or the icebound steeps of zermatt,
loaded up for a lark to 'is plimsoll mark
he's been game to go off on a bat!