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"Let the Ghoorka drink his pugaree and pukka, Let the Hollander imbibe old schnapps galore. Tommy Atkins is the chap Who has broached a better tap, For he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore. Blood and gore, For he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
We descended to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and polished glassware and shining brass. The holy father ordered 'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of Moore's ballads. The landlady then gave us Byron's "Here's a Health to Thee, Tom Moore." A neighbor came in.
Then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a selection from "Lalla Rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life, which possibly would be hard to verify. And as the tumult raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip away. I crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered Saint Patrick's Cathedral.
"When at 'ome he may content himself with whisky, But if once he lands upon a foreign shore On the Nile or Irrawady He forgets his native toddy, And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore. Blood and gore, And he takes his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore.
"He's a connoisseur of every foreign vintage, From the claret of the fat and juicy Boer To the thicker nigger brand That he spills upon the sand, When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore. Blood and gore, When he draws his 'arf-and-'arf in blood and gore." "Fine, isn't it!" exclaimed Sam's neighbor, the captain, who was standing by him, as they all joined in hearty applause.
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