NEWCASTLE BEER.
By John Cunningham.
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[2] 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 harrass’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.
[2] A great Beer House in Newcastle at that time, kept by Moor, at the sign of the Sun.
MY LORD ’SIZE;
Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.
By J. Shield, of Newcastle.
The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief,
Whose looks seem’d a passport for Botany Bay;
The lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief,
Around the green table were seated so gay:
Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call;
Attornies and clients, more angry than wise,
With strangers and town’s-people, throng’d the Guild-Hall,—
All waiting and gaping to see my Lord ’Size.
Oft stretch’d were their necks, oft erected their ears,
Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound,
When tidings arriv’d, which disolv’d them in tears,
That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown’d!
Straight left tête a tête were the jailor and thief;
The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies;
Ev’n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief,
Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord ’Size.
And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings,
And the tubs of the taties are left to take care;
Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings,
And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare.
The Glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news,
And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies;
Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild Kangaroos,
Came, tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord ’Size.
The dead-house they reach’d, where his Lordship they found,
Pale, stretch’d on a plank, like themselves out of breath;
The Crowner and Jury were seated around,
Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.
No haste did they seem in, their task to complete,
Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise;
Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat
Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord ’Size.
Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos’d:—
“My Lord on the terrace seem’d studying his charge;
And when (as I thought) he had got it compos’d,
He went down the stairs and examin’d the barge.
First the stem he survey’d, then inspected the stern,
Then handled the tiller, and look’d mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the river straight tumbled Lord ’Size.”
Now his narrative ended—the Butler retir’d,
Whilst Betty Watt, mut’ring (half drunk) thro’ her teeth,
Declar’d, “in her breest great consarn it inspir’d,
That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.”
Next a keelman was call’d on, Bold Archy his name,
Who the book as he kiss’d shew’d the whites of his eyes;
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidence gave them respecting Lord ’Size.
“Aw was setten the keel, wi’ Dick Stavers an’ Mat,
An’ the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside,
When we a’ three see’d sumthing, but didn’t ken what,
That was splashing and labbering aboot i’ the tide.
“It’s a fluiker!” ki Dick; “No,” ki Mat, “it’s owre big,
“It luik’d mair like a skyat when aw furst see’d it rise:”
Kiv aw—for aw’d getten a gliff o’ the wig—
Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it’s Lord ’Size.
Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel,
An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot;
An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel,
But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot.
Sae aw brought him ashore here, an’ doctors, in vain,
Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries;
For ye see there he’s lying as deed as a stane,—
An’ that’s a’ aw can tell ye about my Lord ’Size.”
Now the Jury for close consultation retir’d:
Some “Death accidental” were willing to find;
Some “God’s visitation” most eager requir’d,
And some were for “Fell in the river” inclin’d:
But ere on their verdict they all were agreed,
My Lord gave a groan, and wide open’d his eyes;
Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed,
And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord ’Size.