Today is the birthday of William S. “Billy” Barnes (September 1, 1864-March 13, 1910). He was born in San Francisco, left to attend Harvard, and then after graduation returned home to join his father’s law office, and was later elected District Attorney for San Francisco. He also belonged to the San Francisco Press Club, and appears to have dabbled in some writing of his own. I guess he was also a fan of Anchor Steam Beer, because in 1897 his poem “The Ballad of Steam Beer” was published in The Wave, a well-regarded local magazine. Former Anchor Brewing historian Dave Burkhart wrote about it for Anchor’s old website, and the story is also included in his great book, The Anchor Brewing Story. But who knows what will happen to the website’s archives, so I thought it was worth keeping it alive here.

The Ballad of Steam Beer

By William Sanford (Billy) Barnes (1864–1910)
As published in The Wave, San Francisco, March 13, 1897

You may talk of your Moet and Chandon,
And all the Cuvees of Champagne,
Of Burgundy, ruby and royal,
From Romanée’s storied demesne;
Of Lafitte and of Lachramae Christi
Or the warm, blushing vintage that grows
Where Yquem and the premier cru Grand Vins
Gush forth from the Hills of Bordeaux;
Of crusty old port and Madeira,
And all of the sherries of Spain,
All the liquers of castle and convent
That ever came over the main.
But I chant out a hymn to Gambrinus,
The god of small change and good cheer,
For I sing you the Song of the Nickel
That buys the big glass of Steam Beer.

A fig for straw-covered Chianti,
Or brandy a century old,
For foaming and flashing Spumante
That sparkles and glitters like gold.
Benedictine and opaline Absinthe
That gourmets and viveurs adore,
And the life-blood of amorous grape vines
That cluster along the Cote D’Or.
Not for me burn the molten sun-kisses
Upon the warm vineyards of France,
Not for me weave the chaplets of Bacchus
Nor call Satyrs and Nymphs to the dance.
I care not for these classical pleasures;
They are for my income too dear,
But still I can compass the nickel
That buys me my Schooner of Beer.

No flagons or wassail cups fill me
Of vintages priceless and rare,
Away with a stoup or a beaker,
And I scorn an effete petit verre;
My chalice is glittering crystal
Full-bosomed, deep-chested, divine,
With the glorious crown of the hop-lands
That mocks at the glory of wine.
Come! drink of the soft flowing amber,
Come! lave in its somnolent streams,
Come! taste of the foam-flecked Nepenthe
That flows from the Kingdom of Dreams.
And sing, as afloat on its tideway
We gently and drowsily steer:
“Here’s a health to the Nickel of
Commerce That buys me my Schooner of Beer!”

B. B.