THE TYNESIDE POETS - IN THE SEVENTIES!

THOMAS SPENCE 1750-1814 - WATCH OUT FOR BICENTENARY BOOK AND EVENTS IN NEWCASTLE & LONDON LATER IN THE YEAR

NEWCASTLE BEER

When Fame brought the news of Great Britain's success,

And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat,
Glad Mars sent to 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 messenger Murcury out for a tun
Of Stingo, the stoutest, the brightest, the best;
No Gods--tye all swore,
Regal'd so before,
With liquour 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 can;
There's nought like good liquour 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 Aldides so bold;
It brac'd up his nerves and eliven'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---Cahumny--Trouble-- and Fear;
Siuch a club would you borrow
To drive away sorrow,
Apply for a Forum of Newcastle Beer.
Ye youngsters so diffident, languid, and pale,
Whom love like the colic so rudely infests;
Take a cordial of this, 'twill probatum prevail,
And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts;
Dull whining dcspise,
Grow rosy and wise,
No 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 Bailif is near!
Your spirits this raises,
It cures your diseases,
There's freedom and health in our Newcastle Beer.





John Cunningham (1729-1773)