Who has not tasted of Newqee brown ale or beer
With its flavour the finest that hops ever gave?
It drives away sadness, it banishes Sunderland fear,
And imparts a glad feeling of joy to the North-Eastern grave.
Oh! to drink it at morning, or when just from Bobbie's bed
She and he rise unrefreshed, and to breakfast sit down,
The froth-crested brimmer they raised to their heads,
And in swigging off last evenings Tony's Ansell's, their sorrows they rightfully drown.
Or to drink it at tiffin, when thirsty and toasty warm,
They say to the khidmutgar* (read Midlands football fan), “bring us some beer,”
Soon, soon do Bobbi and mate feel its most magical charm,
And quickly the eatables (Greggs pies) all disappear.
Or at ev’ning, when home from their lockdown ride they return,
And jaded and weary they sit down to dine;
They ask but for Newcee, and willingly spurn
The choicest the dearest the rarest of wine.
Then hail to thee Broon! of local brewer bewail;
May you live long and happy, and when you are the head,
Thy loss we in the North-East would, foresightedly, think dead,
ABers will think of all of yer Newcees daily whilst drinking your bottled ale.