In the year of sixteen forty-two in a little cider mill
A poor old dog lay down to rest 'cos he were feeling ill
He chose a most precarious perch above the apple press
And in his sleep he tumbled in and he perished in distress

Which caused his master for to grieve, likewise his mistress too
Until their sorrows to relieve, they sampled of the brew
'Odzoons', cried Farmer Atwater, 'the like I ne'er did sup
Go summon all the neighbors in, and bid them take a cup'

So the neighbours came from far and near, the parson and the squire
The blacksmith and the gamekeeper and daft old Obediah 
They wished the farmer health and wealth and the parson played his fife
And the squire he filled three flagons up for to take home to his wife

Now every man that drank that night got drunk as drunk could be
And wondered how the scrumpy had acquired such potency
The farmer kept his counsel as he took another drop,
When suddenly the poor old dog come a-floating to the top

Now a silence fell upon the room, and every man did frown
They recognized old Bendigo though he were upside down
The parson changed his colour and collapsed upon the floor
And the squire he lost his britches in the fight to reach the door

'Fear not', shouts Farmer Atwater, 'for in all his life I vow
He never bit nor man nor child and he'll not bite no one now
And this shall be his epitaph, 'Here lies poor faithful Ben
Who perished in the scrumpy vat and quickly rose again

So if you're down to Devon, and you goes into a bar
Ask for Dead Dog Scrumpy, it's the best there is by far
Refuse all imitations and you'll sleep like a log
You can always recognize it by the hair of the dog