(Trevor Crozier)
In the year of sixteen forty-two, in a little cider mill
A poor old dog lay down to rest 'cause he was feeling ill
He chose a most precarious perch above the apple press
An in his sleep he tumbled in and perished in distress
This caused his master for to grieve likewise his mistress too
Until their sorrows were relieved when they sampled of the brew
A-ha, cried farmer Attwater, The likes I ne'er did sup
So he summoned all the neighbours in and bade them take a cup
And every man who drank that night got drunk as drunk could be
They wondered how the scrumpy had acquired such potency
But the farmer kept his council and took another drop
When all at once the poor old dog came floating to the top
A silence fell upon the room and every man did frown
The recognised old Bendigo though he was upside down
The Squire lost his colour and collapsed upon the floor
And the vicar lost his britches in the rush to reach the door
Fear not, cried farmer Attwater, For in all his life I vow
He never bit no man nor dog, and he'll not bite no man now
And this shall be his epitaph, Here lies our faithful Ben
Who perished in the scrumpy vat and quickly rose again
So if ever you're in Devon and you go into a bar
Ask for Dead Dog Scrumpy its the best there is by far
Refuse all imitations and you'll sleep just like a log
You can always recognise it by the hair of the dog
(as sung by Iain MacKintosh)