In eighteen hundred & forty-nine, in a little cider mill,
A poor old dog lay down to rest for he were feelin' ill.
He chose a most precarious perch above the apple press
And in his sleep he tumbled in and perished in distress.
This caused his master for to grieve, likewise his mistress too
Until , their sorrows to relieve, they sampled of the brew
"Gadzooks!," cried farmer Arthwater, "the likes I ne'er did sup.
Go summon all the neighbors in and bid them take a cup!"
Now every man who drank that night got drunk as drunk could be
And wondered how the scrumpy had acquired such potency
The farmer held his counsel as he took another drop
When all at once, the poor old dog came floating to the top.
A silence fell upon the room, and everyone did frown
For they recognized poor Bendigo, though he were upside-down
The parson lost his color and collapsed upon the floor
And the squire lost his britches in the rush to reach the door.
"Hold hard!" cried Farmer Arthwater, "For in all his life, I vow
He never bit a man nor beast, and he'll not bite thee now
And this shall be his epitaph: 'Here Lies Poor Faithful Ben
Who Perished in a Cider Vat, but Quickly Rose Again.'"
So if you're ever down in Devon, and you stops off at a bar,
Ask for "Dead Dog Cider" , it's the best there is by far.
Refuse all imitations and you'll sleep just like a log.
You can always recognize it by the hair of the dog.