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_.