Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Wine Water and Song by Chesterton G K Gilbert Keith
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page
Ebook has 39 lines and 5274 words, and 1 pages
ave rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam and all mankind, Or been eaten by wolves athirst for blood, Or burnt on a good tall pyre of wood, In a towering flame, as a heathen should, Or even sat with us here at food, Merrily taking twopenny ale and pork with a pocket-knife; But this was luxury not for one that went for the Simple Life.
The Song Against Songs
The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and a dreary song, The glory of Mariana's grange had got into great decay, The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song, And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay.
But who will write us a riding song, Or a hunting song or a drinking song, Fit for them that arose and rode When day and the wine were red? But bring me a quart of claret out, And I will write you a clinking song, A song of war and a song of wine And a song to wake the dead.
The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a torrid song, The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp unstrung, The song of the cheerful Shropshire Lad I consider a perfectly horrid song, And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can't be sung.
But who will write us a riding song Or a fighting song or a drinking song, Fit for the fathers of you and me, That knew how to think and thrive? But the song of Beauty and Art and Love Is simply an utterly stinking song, To double you up and drag you down And damn your soul alive.
Me Heart
I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, And any sword or pistol boy can hit it with me leave, It shines there for an epaulette, as golden as a flame, As naked as me ancestors, as noble as me name. For I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Gallowglass's Eve.
The folk that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots; They go to hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots. Where men may not be dancin', though the wheels may dance all day; And men may not be smokin'; but only chimneys may. But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve, But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleander's Eve.
The folk that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their mouth, They see us making murders in the meadows of the South; They think a plough's a rack, they do, and cattle-calls are creeds, And they think we're burnin' witches when we're only burnin' weeds; But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me sleeve; But a lady stole it from me on St. Barnabas's Eve.
The Song of the Oak
The Druids waved their golden knives And danced around the Oak When they had sacrificed a man; But though the learned search and scan, No single modern person can Entirely see the joke. But though they cut the throats of men They cut not down the tree, And from the blood the saplings sprang Of oak-woods yet to be. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He rots the tree as ivy would, He clings and crawls as ivy would About the sacred tree.
King Charles he fled from Worcester fight And hid him in an Oak; In convent schools no man of tact Would trace and praise his every act, Or argue that he was in fact A strict and sainted bloke, But not by him the sacred woods Have lost their fancies free, And though he was extremely big He did not break the tree. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He breaks the tree as ivy would, And eats the woods as ivy would Between us and the sea.
Great Collingwood walked down the glade And flung the acorns free, That oaks might still be in the grove As oaken as the beams above, When the great Lover sailors love Was kissed by Death at sea. But though for him the oak-trees fell To build the oaken ships, The woodman worshipped what he smote And honoured even the chips. But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood, He hates the tree as ivy would, As the dragon of the ivy would That has us in his grips.
The Road to Roundabout
Some say that Guy of Warwick, The man that killed the Cow And brake the mighty Boar alive Beyond the Bridge at Slough; Went up against a Loathly Worm That wasted all the Downs, And so the roads they twist and squirm From the writhing of the stricken Worm That died in seven towns. I see no scientific proof That this idea is sound, And I should say they wound about To find the town of Roundabout, The merry town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round.
Some say that Robin Goodfellow, Whose lantern lights the meads , Such dance around the trysting-place The moonstruck lover leads; Which superstition I should scout There is more faith in honest doubt Than in those nasty creeds. But peace and righteousness In Roundabout can kiss, And since that's all that's found about The pleasant town of Roundabout, The roads they simply bound about To find out where it is.
Some say that when Sir Lancelot Went forth to find the Grail, Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roads For hope that he should fail; All roads led back to Lyonesse And Camelot in the Vale, I cannot yield assent to this Extravagant hypothesis, The plain, shrewd Briton will dismiss Such rumours . But in the streets of Roundabout Are no such factions found, Or theories to expound about, Or roll upon the ground about, In the happy town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round.
The Song of the Strange Ascetic
If I had been a Heathen, I'd have praised the purple vine, My slaves should dig the vineyards, And I would drink the wine; But Higgins is a Heathen, And his slaves grow lean and grey, That he may drink some tepid milk Exactly twice a day.
If I had been a Heathen, I'd have crowned Neoera's curls, And filled my life with love affairs, My house with dancing girls; But Higgins is a Heathen, And to lecture rooms is forced, Where his aunts, who are not married, Demand to be divorced.
If I had been a Heathen, I'd have sent my armies forth, And dragged behind my chariots The Chieftains of the North. But Higgins is a Heathen, And he drives the dreary quill, To lend the poor that funny cash That makes them poorer still.
If I had been a Heathen, I'd have piled my pyre on high, And in a great red whirlwind Gone roaring to the sky; But Higgins is a Heathen, And a richer man than I; And they put him in an oven, Just as if he were a pie.
Now who that runs can read it, The riddle that I write, Of why this poor old sinner, Should sin without delight--? But I, I cannot read it , Of them that do not have the faith, And will not have the fun.
The Song of Right and Wrong
Feast on wine or fast on water, And your honour shall stand sure, God Almighty's son and daughter He the valiant, she the pure; If an angel out of heaven Brings you other things to drink, Thank him for his kind attentions, Go and pour them down the sink.
Tea is like the East he grows in, A great yellow Mandarin With urbanity of manner And unconsciousness of sin; All the women, like a harem, At his pig-tail troop along; And, like all the East he grows in, He is Poison when he's strong.
Tea, although an Oriental, Is a gentleman at least; Cocoa is a cad and coward, Cocoa is a vulgar beast, Cocoa is a dull, disloyal, Lying, crawling cad and clown, And may very well be grateful To the fool that takes him down.
Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam They cry in their parliament "Who goes home?" And there comes no answer in arch or dome, For none in the city of graves goes home. Yet these shall perish and understand, For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home? Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home? For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam And blood on the body when Man goes home. And a voice valedictory.... Who is for Victory? Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
Printed in Great Britain by UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, PRINTERS, WOKING AND LONDON
SOME DELIGHTFUL BOOKS BY G. K. CHESTERTON
A famous book on Dickens which is intended as a general justification of that author. Mr. Chesterton compares the immense achievements produced by the optimism of Dickens in the realm of reform with the small results produced by the pessimistic method of later days. He treats each of the novels in turn, and he devotes the latter part of his book to a general estimate of the influence of Dickens.
A Ballad of the Reign of King Alfred. It describes that monarch's noble exploits, his character, his struggle with the Danes, the story of the White Horse, and the Battle of Ethandune.
LETTERS TO AN OLD GARIBALDIAN. Crown 8vo, 3d. net.
ESSAYS
Fcap. 8vo. Gilt Top. 5s. each.
METHUEN & CO. LTD. LONDON
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page