John Cunningham

Newcastle Beer

When Fame brought the news of Great-Britain’s success,
	   And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;
Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,
	   To summon the Deities all to a treat:
		   Blithe Comus was plac’d
		   To guide the gay feast,
And freely declar’d there was choice of good cheer;
		   Yet vow’d to his thinking,
		   For exquisite drinking,
Their Nectar was nothing to Newcastle Beer.

The great God of war, to encourage the fun,
	   And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,
Sent a message that moment to Moor’s for a tun
	   Of Stingo, the stoutest, the brightest, and best:
		   No Gods – they all swore,
		   Regal’d so before,
With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:
		   And each deified fellow
		   Got jovially mellow,
In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle Beer.

Apollo perceiving his talents refine,
	   Repents he drank Helicon water so long:
He bow’d, being ask’d by the musical Nine,
	   And gave the gay board an extempore song:
 		   But ere he began,
		   He toss’d off his cann:
There’s nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:
		   Then sang with great merit,
		   The flavour and spirit,
His Godship had found in our Newcastle Beer.

 ’Twas Stingo like this made Alcides so bold,
 	   It brac’d up his nerves, and enliven’d his pow’rs;
 And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,
 	   Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.
 		   The horrible crew
 		   That Hercules slew,
 Were Poverty – Calumny – Trouble – and Fear:
 		   Such a club would you borrow,
 		   To drive away sorrow,
 Apply for a Jorum of Newcastle Beer.

 Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid and pale,
 	   Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;
 Take a cordial of this, ’twill probatum prevail,
	   And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:
		   Dull whining despise,
		   Grow rosy and wise,
Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;
		   Bid adieu to your folly,
		   Get drunk and be jolly,
And smoke o’er a tankard of Newcastle Beer.

Ye fanciful folk, for whom physic prescribes,
	   Whom bolus and potion have harass’d to death!
Ye wretches, whom law and her ill-looking tribes,
	   Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath!
		   Here’s shelter and ease,
		   No craving for fees,
No danger, – no doctor, – no bailiff is near!
		   Your spirits this raises,
		   It cures your diseases,
There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle Beer.