Lyrics:

(S. McGrath)
The French drink wine, the English tea
The Yankee drinks his hot black coffee
The child drinks milk nine times a day
The Scotsman sips his whiskey toddy
You can keep you wine and keep your tea
My curse on him that brings me coffee
I'll drink porter, if I may
It makes me feel content and happy
Porter quaffed down with a laugh
The gentry have their aching livers
Water is all right in tea
For fish, and things that swim in rivers
The poor man and the beggar, too
The poet in the corner thinking
If they'd money enough to spend
It's pints of porter they'd be drinking
Porter quaffed down with a laugh
The gentry have their aching livers
Water is all right in tea
For fish, and things that swim in rivers
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
Porter quaffed down with a laugh
The gentry have their aching livers
Water is all right in tea
For fish, and things that swim in rivers
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 in it
Porter quaffed down with a laugh
The gentry have their aching livers
Water is all right in tea
For fish, and things that swim in rivers