A Cider Song
To J.
S.
M.
The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine;
God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again.
The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey,
The purple wine of Paradise,
But we have better at the price;
It's wine they praise in Paradise,
It's cider that they pray.
The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End,
The apple wine of Herford,
Of Hafod Hill and Herford,
Where woods went down to Herford,
And there I had a friend.
The soft feet of the blessed go In the soft western vales,
The road of the silent saints accord,
The road from heaven to Herford,
Where the apple wood of Herford Goes all the way to Wales.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Other author posts
The House of Christmas
There fared a mother driven Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was All men are at home
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 sexton and the squire;
The Song of Quoodle
They haven't got no noses, The fallen sons of Eve; Even the smell of Is not what they supposes;
Ecclesiastes
There is one sin: to call a green leaf gray, Whereat the sun in heaven shuddereth There is one blasphemy: for death to pray, For God alone knoweth the praise of death There is one creed: ’’neath no world-terror’s wing Apples forget to gr...