TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Beer, by George Arnold
2. A Shropshire Lad, by A.E. Housman
3. Lines on Ale (1848), by Edgar Allen Poe
4. The Old Stone Cross, by William Butler Yeats
5. The Hour Before Dawn, by William Butler Yeats
6. Old English folk song, author unknown
7. Old Irish Tale, author unknown
8. Doh, Re Mi, by Homer Simpson
9. English drinking song, circa 1757
10. Old Somersetshire English song, author unknown
11. The Beggar, an old English folk song
12. Three Jolly Postboys, an 18th century song
13. A Glass of Beer, by David O’Bruadair
14. The Pelagian Drinking Song, by Hillaire Belloc
15. Get Drunk!, by Charles Baudelaire
16. The Tavern, by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
17. The Empty Bottle, by William Aytoun
18. The Ex-ale-tation of Ale, an Old English Song
19. No More Poles, Unknown Author
20. Beer, by Charles Bukowski
21. I Went into the Maverick Bar, by Gary Snyder
22. Beers, Not Trees, a spoof of Joyce Kilmer’s Trees

• Links to More Beer Poetry Collections

Beer, by George Arnold (1834 - 1865)

HERE,
With my beer
I sit,
While golden moments flit:

Alas!
They pass
Unheeded by:
And, as they fly,
I,
Being dry,
Sit, idly sipping here
My beer.

O, finer far
Than fame, or riches, are
The graceful smoke-wreathes of this cigar!
Why
Should I
Weep, wail, or sigh?
What if luck has passed me by?
What if my hopes are dead,—
My pleasures fled?
Have I not still
My fill
Of right good cheer,—
Cigars and beer

Go, whining youth,
Forsooth!
Go, weep and wail,
Sigh and grow pale,
   Weave melancholy rhymes
   On the old times,
Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,
But leave me to my beer!
   Gold is dross,—
   Love is loss,—
So, if I gulp my sorrows down,
Or see them drown
In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,
Then do wear the crown,
   Without the cross!
 

Excerpted from Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff, poem LXII in A Shropshire Lad (1896), by A.E. Housman (1859 - 1936)

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
 

Lines on Ale (1848), by Edgar Allen Poe (1809 - 1849)

Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain.
Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away.
What care I how time advances;
I am drinking ale today.
 

From The Old Stone Cross, by William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote.
A journalist invents his lies, and rams them down your throat.
So stay at home and drink your beer and let the neighbors vote.
 

From The Hour Before Dawn, by William Butler Yeats (1865 - 1939)

A great lad with a beery face
Had tucked himself away beside
A ladle and a tub of beer,
And snored, no phantom by his look.
So with a laugh at his own fear
He crawled into that pleasant nook.
‘Night grows uneasy near the dawn
Till even I sleep light; but who
Has tired of his own company?
What one of Maeve’s nine brawling sons
Sick of his grave has wakened me?
But let him keep his grave for once
That I may find the sleep I have lost.’
What care I if you sleep or wake?
But I’ll have no man call me ghost.’
Say what you please, but from daybreak
I’ll sleep another century.’
And I will talk before I sleep
And drink before I talk.’
And he
Had dipped the wooden ladle deep
Into the sleeper’s tub of beer
Had not the sleeper started up.
Before you have dipped it in the beer
I dragged from Goban’s mountain-top
I’ll have assurance that you are able
To value beer; no half-legged fool
Shall dip his nose into my ladle
Merely for stumbling on this hole
In the bad hour before the dawn.’
Why beer is only beer.’
 

Old English folk song, author unknown

Three jolly coachmen
sat in a Bristol Tavern,
and they decided,
to have another flagon.

Landlord fill the flowing bowl,
until it doth run over.
For tonight we’ll merry, merry be.
Tomorrow we’ll be sober.

Here’s to the man who drinks small beer,
and goes to bed quite sober.
Fades as the leaves do fade,
and drop off in October.

Here’s to the man who drinks strong ale,
and goes to bed quite mellow.
Lives as he ought to live,
and dies a jolly good fellow

Here’s to the girl who steals a kiss,
and runs to tell her mother.
She’s a very foolish thing.
She’ll never get another.

Here’s to the girl who steals a kiss,
and runs back for another.
She’s a boon to all mankind.
Very soon she’ll be a mother.

If I had another brick,
I’d build by chimney higher.
It would stop my neighbour’s cat,
from pissing on my fire.

Come, into the garden Maude,
and don’t be so particular.
If the grass is cold and damp,
We’ll do it perpendicular.

Landlord fill the flowing bowl,
until it doth run over.
For tonight we’ll merry, merry be.
Tomorrow we’re Hungover.
 

Old Irish Tale, author unknown

Some Guinness was spilt on the barroom floor
When the pub was shut for the night.
When out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse
And stood in the pale moonlight.

He lapped up the frothy foam from the floor
Then back on his haunches he sat.
And all night long, you could hear the mouse roar,
“Bring on the goddamn cat!”
 

Doh, Re, Me, by Homer Simpson

Dough, the stuff that buys me beer.
Ray, the guy who brings me beer.
Me, the guy who drinks the beer.
Far, a long way to get beer.
So, I’ll have another beer.
La, I’ll have another beer.
Tea, no thanks I’m having beer.
That will bring us back to…
(reaching the crescendo of his toast,
Homer looks into his beer mug,
which is empty) …DOH!!!
 

English drinking song, circa 1757

Let us sing our own treasures, Old England’s good cheer,
To the profits and pleasures of stout British beer;
Your wine tippling, dram sipping fellows retreat,
But your beer drinking Britons can never be beat.
The French with their vineyards and meager pale ale,
They drink from the squeezing of half ripe fruit;
But we, who have hop-yards to mellow our ale,
Are rosy and plump and have freedom to boot.
 

Old Somersetshire English song

Why, we’ll smoke and drink our beer.
For I like a drop of good beer, I does.
I’ze fond of good beer, I is.
Let gentlemen fine sit down to their wine.
But we’ll all of us here stick to our beer.
 

The Beggar, an old English folk song

Let the back and sides go bare, my boys,
Let the hands and the feet gang cold;
But give to belly, boys, beer enough,
Whether it be new or old.
 

Three Jolly Postboys, an 18th century song

Landlord fill the flowing bowl
Until it doth run over;
For to-night we’ll merry be
To-morrow we’ll be sober.
 

A Glass of Beer, by David O’Bruadair (1625 - 1698)

The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer;
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled ape, with the toughest jaw you will see
On virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

If I asked her master he’d give me a cask a day;
But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.
 

The Pelagian Drinking Song, by Hillaire Belloc (1870 - 1953)

Pelagius lived at Kardanoel
And taught a doctrine there
How, whether you went to heaven or to hell
It was your own affair.
It had nothing to do with the Church, my boy,
But was your own affair.

No, he didn’t believe
In Adam and Eve
He put no faith therein!
His doubts began
With the Fall of Man
And he laughed at Original Sin.
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
He laughed at original sin.

Then came the bishop of old Auxerre
Germanus was his name
He tore great handfuls out of his hair
And he called Pelagius shame.
And with his stout Episcopal staff
So thoroughly whacked and banged
The heretics all, both short and tall –
They rather had been hanged.

Oh he whacked them hard, and he banged them long
Upon each and all occasions
Till they bellowed in chorus, loud and strong
Their orthodox persuasions.
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
Their orthodox persuasions.

Now the faith is old and the Devil bold
Exceedingly bold indeed.
And the masses of doubt that are floating about
Would smother a mortal creed.
But we that sit in a sturdy youth
And still can drink strong ale
Let us put it away to infallible truth
That always shall prevail.

And thank the Lord
For the temporal sword
And howling heretics too.
And all good things
Our Christendom brings
But especially barley brew!
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
Especially barley brew!
 

Get Drunk!, by Charles Baudelaire (1821 - 1867)

Always be drunk.
That’s it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time’s horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On beer, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On beer, virtue, poetry, whatever!”
 

The Tavern, by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (1207 - 1273)

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
And I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of beer, but no cups.
That’s fine with us. Every morning
We glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there’s no future for us. They’re right.
Which is fine with us.
 

The Empty Bottle, by William Aytoun (1813 - 1865)

Ah, liberty! how like thou art
To this large bottle lying here,
Which yesterday from foreign mart,
Came filled with potent English beer!

A touch of steel — a hand — a gush —
A pop that sounded far and near —
A wild emotion - liquid rush —
And I had drunk that English beer!

And what remains? - An empty shell!
A lifeless form both sad and queer,
A temple where no god doth dwell —
The simple memory of beer!
 

The Ex-ale-tation of Ale, an Old English Song

But now, so they say, beer bears it away,
The more is the pity, if right might prevail;
For with this same beer came in heresy here,
The old Catholic drink is a good pot of ale.

And physic will favour ale as it’s bound,
And be against beer both tooth and nail;
They send up and down, all over the town,
To get for their patients a pot of good ale.

Their aleberries, cawdles, and possets each one,
And syllabubs made at the milking pail,
Although they be many, beer comes not in any,
But all are composed with a pot of good ale;

And in very deed, the hop’s but a weed,
Brought over ‘gainst law, and here set to sale ;
Would the law were removed, and no more beer brewed,
But all good men betake them to a pot of good ale.

But to speak of killing, of that I’m not willing,
For that, in a manner, were but to rail;
But beer hath its name ’cause it brings to the bier,
Therefore welfare, say I, to a pot of good ale.

Too many, I wis, with their death proved this,
And, therefore (if ancient records do not fail),
He that first brewed with hop was rewarded with a rope,
And found his beer far more bitter than ale,” etc., etc.
 

No More Poles, unknown author, published in the Ludgate Monthly:
Hops and Hop-pickers (November 1891)

Give over work. The cry in hop-gardens when the pickers are to cease working.
        “When the sun set, the cry of ‘No more poles’ resounded, and the work of the day was done.”
 

Beer, by Charles Bukowski, from Love is A Mad Dog From Hell (1920 - 1994)

I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I don’t know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women—
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
“what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows it’s bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horny cowboys.

well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
 

I Went into the Maverick Bar, by Gary Snyder (1930 - )

            
I went into the Maverick Bar
In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
            backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap
I’d left the earring in the car.

Two cowboys did horseplay
            by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
            where are you from?
a country-and-western band began to play
“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”
And with the next song,
            a couple began to dance.

They held each other like in High School dances
            in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
            and the bars of Madras, Oregon.
That short-haired joy and roughness—
            America—your stupidity.
I could almost love you again.

We left—onto the freeway shoulders—
            under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
            I came back to myself,
To the real work, to
            ”What is to be done.”
 

Beers, a spoof of Joyce Kilmer’s Trees (1886 - 1918)

I THINK that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer.
A brew that’s best straight from a tap
With golden hue and snowy cap;
The liquid bread I drink all day,
Until my memory melts away;
A beer that’s made with summer malt
Too little hops its only fault;
Upon whose brow the yeast has lain;
In water clear as falling rain.
Poems are made by fools I fear,
But only wort can make a beer.
 

Here’s the original poem:

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
 

More Links To Beer Poetry Collections

• Beer Poems from the Winter of 2002, by Richard S. Ellis
• Chapter 20: The Brewing of Beer, from the Kalevala, the Epic Poem of Finland, by Elias Lönnrot
• The Sumerian Hymn to Ninkasi
• John Barleycorn, the old English folksong