In a little town in Devon
In a little cider mill
A poor old dog lay down to rest
Cause 'e was feeling ill
'E found a most precarious perch
Above the apple press
And in 'is sleep 'e tumbled in
And perished in distress

This caused 'is master for to grieve
Likewise 'is mistress too
At length their sorrows to relieve
They sampled of the brew
'Odzounds!' cried Farmer Atwater
'It's like I ne'er did sup!
Come summon all the neighbours in
And bid them take a cup!'

Now everyone that drunk that night
Got drunk as drunk could be
They wondered 'ow the scrumpy 'ad
Acquired such potency
The landlord kept 'is counsel
As 'e took another drop
When all at once the poor old dog
Came floating to the top

A silence fell across the room
And everyone did frown
They recognised old Bendigo
Though 'e were upside down
The vicar lost is colour
As 'e fainted to the floor
The squire lost 'is britches
In the rush to find the door

'Fear not,' cried Farmer Atwater
'In all 'is life I vow
'E never bit nor man nor dog
'E'll not bite no-one now
'And this shall be 'is epitaph
'Ere lies poor faithful Ben
'Oo perished in the scrumpy vat
And quickly rose again!'

So if you're down in Devon
And if you're in a bar
Remember Dead Dog Scrumpy
It's the best there is by far!
Refuse all imitations
And you'll sleep just like a log
You'll always recognise it by
The hair of the dog!