Beer de Beer.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer,
Of ale ye shall not win renown;
Ye thought to load aitch brewer's cart
Wid thin "she oak" about the town.
The swipes wor spiled be brewers riled,
They saw the snare wid frinzy fired;
Desthroyer av a hundhred barr'ls,
Ye are not one to be admired.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer,
I know ye proud to make a name;
Yer pride, me boy, is mighty fine,
Be gog we've spiled yer little game;
For beer we make a tax you'd take,
Ye thried to woo us wid yer charms,
The simple hop, whin out o' flower.
Produces ale, an' yeast, an' barms.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer,
Some other dodge yu'll have to find;
Perhaps ye'd betther tax the fizz;
The thrue deep-sinkers wouldn't mind;
The Bill ye'd move, wo know would prove
A failure—what can you reply,
The lyin' on your fancy rates,
Ye know me boy, its all me I.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer,
Ye'd take the brains from aitch hogshead;
Shure malt would be too dear alone,
We'd have to put in dhrugs instead;
The price ye'd rise on thim that buys,
A grate fine-ansher you may be.
There's cobwebs in the toiler's throat.
Which you would hardly care to see.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer.
Yer mates have given ye the slue;
Why even Fox bethrayed bis kind,
An' voted 'gainst yer tax an' you;
Och, be the hokey, 'twas absurd
To make the poor man's comfort dear;
Begrudgin' him the crimson nose
Which marks the caste o' Beer de Beer.

Johnny Ballance Beer de Beer,
There stands no barmaid in yer hall.
The brand o' "Blood is at yer door.
Ye don't dhrink home-made swipes at all;
Ye take a course, without remorse,
Av Guiness' from yer native earth,
Bekase yer heajt is over there
In that green island av yer birth.

Thrust me, Ballance Beer de Beer,
Our mates had lots o' prisints sint;
Aitch grand ould Brewer, 'pon me life,
Has graised the paws o' many a gint;

Howe'er it be, a jolly spree,
Jist now and then I think is good;
Tankards are more than coronets,
Colonial ale than 'Bass' or 'Blood.'

I know ye, Ballance Beer de Beer,
Ye thry to build up airy towers;
Ye thrusted well—alas not wise—
Too much in yer persuasive powers;
New Zayland's health, for want av wealth,
Is sickenin av a tight disaise.
Ye dale so ill wid mini an' time,
Ye do not tax the thing that pays.

Ballance, Ballance Beer de Beer,
If sugar's short upon yer hands,
Are there no absentees to rate?
No idle runs? no wasted lands?
Go, taich the squatthers how to bleed,
Unless they larn to plough an' sow;
Go, taich the millionaires to part,
An' let the yeoman's liquor go.