Wine, Water, and Song.

by Gilbert Keith Chesterton.

NOTE

The Songs in this book are taken from "THE FLYING INN," with the exception of "The Good Rich Man" and "The Song of the Strange Ascetic,"

which are here included by kind permission of the editor of =The New Witness=, where they originally appeared.

The Englishman

St. George he was for England, And before he killed the dragon He drank a pint of English ale Out of an English flagon.

For though he fast right readily In hair-shirt or in mail, It isn't safe to give him cakes Unless you give him ale.

St. George he was for England, And right gallantly set free The lady left for dragon's meat And tied up to a tree; But since he stood for England And knew what England means, Unless you give him bacon You mustn't give him beans.

St. George he is for England, And shall wear the shield he wore When we go out in armour With the battle-cross before.

But though he is jolly company And very pleased to dine, It isn't safe to give him nuts Unless you give him wine.

Wine and Water

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale, He ate his egg with a ladle in an egg-cup big as a pail, And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and the fish he took was Whale, But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail, And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, "I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine."

The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of h.e.l.l to drink, And Noah he c.o.c.ked his eye and said, "It looks like rain, I think, The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine."

But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod, Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, And you can't get wine at a P.S.A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod, For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of G.o.d, And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.

The Song Against Grocers

G.o.d made the wicked Grocer For a mystery and a sign, That men might shun the awful shops And go to inns to dine; Where the bacon's on the rafter And the wine is in the wood, And G.o.d that made good laughter Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer Would call his mother "Ma'am,"

And bow at her and bob at her, Her aged soul to d.a.m.n, And rub his horrid hands and ask What article was next, Though =mortis in articulo= Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children, But pert lads underpaid, Who call out "Cash!" and bang about To work his wicked trade; He keeps a lady in a cage Most cruelly all day, And makes her count and calls her "Miss"

Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepers Induce them now and then To crack a bottle with a friend Or treat unmoneyed men, But who hath seen the Grocer Treat housemaids to his teas Or crack a bottle of fish-sauce Or stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of Araby As sugar for cash down; He sweeps his shop and sells the dust The purest salt in town, He crams with cans of poisoned meat Poor subjects of the King, And when they die by thousands Why, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer groces In spirits and in wine, Not frankly and in fellowship As men in inns do dine; But packed with soap and sardines And carried off by grooms, For to be s.n.a.t.c.hed by d.u.c.h.esses And drunk in dressing-rooms.

The h.e.l.l-instructed Grocer Has a temple made of tin, And the ruin of good innkeepers Is loudly urged therein; But now the sands are running out From sugar of a sort, The Grocer trembles; for his time, Just like his weight, is short.

The Rolling English Road

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.

A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, And after him the parson ran, the s.e.xton and the squire; A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire; But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands, The night we went to Glas...o...b..ry by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run Behind him; and the hedges all strengthing in the sun?

The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which, But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.

G.o.d pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth, And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen, Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

The Song of Quoodle

They haven't got no noses, The fallen sons of Eve; Even the smell of roses Is not what they supposes; But more than mind discloses And more than men believe.

They haven't got no noses, They cannot even tell When door and darkness closes The park a Jew encloses, Where even the Law of Moses Will let you steal a smell.

The brilliant smell of water, The brave smell of a stone, The smell of dew and thunder, The old bones buried under, Are things in which they blunder And err, if left alone.

The wind from winter forests, The scent of scentless flowers, The breath of brides' adorning, The smell of snare and warning, The smell of Sunday morning, G.o.d gave to us for ours.

And Quoodle here discloses All things that Quoodle can, They haven't got no noses, They haven't got no noses, And goodness only knowses The Noselessness of Man.

Pioneers, O Pioneers