Produced by Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[ Transcriber’s Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation;
no changes have been made to the original text.
Italic text has been marked with underscores.
Bold italic text has been marked with =equals signs=.
]
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
CHARLES DICKENS
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE
THE FLYING INN
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
TREMENDOUS TRIFLES
ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS
A MISCELLANY OF MEN
WINE, WATER
AND SONG
BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
THIRD EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
First Published August 6th 1915
Second Edition August 10th 1915
Third Edition August 23rd 1915
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.
CONTENTS
Page
The Englishman 9
Wine and Water 11
The Song against Grocers 15
Pioneers, O Pioneers 27
The Logical Vegetarian 31
“The Saracen’s Head” 34
The Good Rich Man 37
Me Heart 45
The Song of the Oak 49
The Road to Roundabout 53
The Song of the Strange Ascetic 57
The Song of Right and Wrong 60
Who Goes Home? 63
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 hell to drink,
And Noah he cocked 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 God,
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
God 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 God 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 damn,
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 snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.
The hell-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.
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;
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 Glastonbury 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.
God 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.
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 scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides’ adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God 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
Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews
Suffered from new and original views,
He crawled on his hands and knees, it’s said,
With grass in his mouth and a crown on his head.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
Those in traditional paths that trod
Thought the thing was a curse from God,
But a Pioneer men always abuse
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
Black Lord Foulon the Frenchman slew
Thought it a Futurist thing to do.
He offered them grass instead of bread.
So they stuffed him with grass when they cut off his head.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
For the pride of his soul he perished then—
But of course it is always of Pride that men,
A Man in Advance of his Age accuse,
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
Simeon Scudder of Styx, in Maine,
Thought of the thing and was at it again.
He gave good grass and water in pails
To a thousand Irishmen hammering rails.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
Appetites differ; and tied to a stake
He was tarred and feathered for Conscience’ Sake.
But stoning the prophets is ancient news,
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
The Logical Vegetarian
“Why shouldn’t I have a purely vegetarian drink? Why shouldn’t I take
vegetables in their highest form, so to speak? The modest vegetarians
ought obviously to stick to wine or beer, plain vegetarian drinks,
instead of filling their goblets with the blood of bulls and elephants,
as all conventional meat-eaters do, I suppose.”—Dalroy.
You will find me drinking rum,
Like a sailor in a slum,
You will find me drinking beer like a Bavarian.
You will find me drinking gin
In the lowest kind of inn,
Because I am a rigid Vegetarian.
So I cleared the inn of wine,
And I tried to climb the sign,
And I tried to hail the constable as “Marion.”
But he said I couldn’t speak,
And he bowled me to the Beak
Because I was a Happy Vegetarian.
Oh, I knew a Doctor Gluck,
And his nose it had a hook,
And his attitudes were anything but Aryan;
So I gave him all the pork
That I had, upon a fork;
Because I am myself a Vegetarian.
I am silent in the Club,
I am silent in the pub.,
I am silent on a bally peak in Darien;
For I stuff away for life
Shoving peas in with a knife,
Because I am at heart a Vegetarian.
No more the milk of cows
Shall pollute my private house
Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian;
I will stick to port and sherry,
For they are so very, very,
So very, very, very Vegetarian.
“The Saracen’s Head”
“The Saracen’s Head” looks down the lane,
Where we shall never drink wine again,
For the wicked old women who feel well-bred
Have turned to a tea-shop “The Saracen’s Head.”
“The Saracen’s Head” out of Araby came,
King Richard riding in arms like flame,
And where he established his folk to be fed
He set up a spear—and the Saracen’s Head.
But “The Saracen’s Head” outlived the Kings,
It thought and it thought of most horrible things,
Of Health and of Soap and of Standard Bread,
And of Saracen drinks at “The Saracen’s Head.”
So “The Saracen’s Head” fulfils its name,
They drink no wine—a ridiculous game—
And I shall wonder until I’m dead,
How it ever came into the Saracen’s Head.
The Good Rich Man
Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, he wouldn’t have wine or wife,
He couldn’t endure complexity: he lived the Simple Life.
He ordered his lunch by megaphone in manly, simple tones,
And used all his motors for canvassing voters, and twenty telephones;
Besides a dandy little machine,
Cunning and neat as ever was seen,
With a hundred pulleys and cranks between,
Made of metal and kept quite clean,
To hoist him out of his healthful bed on every day of his life,
And wash him and dress him and shave him and brush him
—to live the Simple Life.
Mr. Mandragon was most refined and quietly, neatly dressed,
Say all the American newspapers that know refinement best;
Quiet and neat the hat and hair and the coat quiet and neat,
A trouser worn upon either leg, while boots adorn the feet;
And not, as any one would expect,
A Tiger’s Skin all striped and specked,
And a Peacock Hat with the tail erect,
A scarlet tunic with sunflowers decked,
Which might have had a more marked effect,
And pleased the pride of a weaker man that yearned for wine or wife;
But Fame and the Flagon, for Mr. Mandragon
—obscured the Simple Life.
Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead;
He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a Crematorium shed.
And he lies there fluffy and soft and grey and certainly quite refined;
When he might have 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 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
(If I may be allowed the term)
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
(To steal a phrase Sir Walter Scott
In heaven no longer needs),
Such dance around the trysting-place
The moonstruck lover leads;
Which superstition I should scout
There is more faith in honest doubt
(As Tennyson has pointed out)
Than in those nasty creeds.
But peace and righteousness (St. John)
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 (=Daily Mail=).
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
(Although I run and run),
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.
As for all the windy waters,
They were rained like tempests down
When good drink had been dishonoured
By the tipplers of the town;
When red wine had brought red ruin
And the death-dance of our times,
Heaven sent us Soda Water
As a torment for our crimes.
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
*CHARLES DICKENS.
With 2 Portraits in Photogravure. Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s.
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.
THE FLYING INN. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. Also Crown 8vo, 2s. net.
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE. Fifth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 5s.
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.
*ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Seventh Edition.
TREMENDOUS TRIFLES. Fifth Edition.
ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS. Second Edition.
A MISCELLANY OF MEN. Second Edition.
- An edition in cloth, Fcap. 8vo, 1s. net, is also issued.
METHUEN & CO. LTD. LONDON
Produced by Jana Srna, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[ Transcriber’s Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation;
no changes have been made to the original text.
Italic text has been marked with underscores.
Bold italic text has been marked with =equals signs=.
]
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
CHARLES DICKENS
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE
THE FLYING INN
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
TREMENDOUS TRIFLES
ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS
A MISCELLANY OF MEN
WINE, WATER
AND SONG
BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
THIRD EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
First Published August 6th 1915
Second Edition August 10th 1915
Third Edition August 23rd 1915
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.
CONTENTS
Page
The Englishman 9
Wine and Water 11
The Song against Grocers 15
Pioneers, O Pioneers 27
The Logical Vegetarian 31
“The Saracen’s Head” 34
The Good Rich Man 37
Me Heart 45
The Song of the Oak 49
The Road to Roundabout 53
The Song of the Strange Ascetic 57
The Song of Right and Wrong 60
Who Goes Home? 63
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 hell to drink,
And Noah he cocked 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 God,
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
God 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 God 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 damn,
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
Prodotto da Jana Srna, Bryan Ness e dal Team di Correzione
Proofreading Team all’indirizzo http://www.pgdp.net (Questo file è stato
prodotto da immagini generosamente rese disponibili da The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[ Note del Trascrittore:
Ogni sforzo è stato compiuto per riprodurre questo testo nel modo più fedele
possibile, comprese le incoerenze nell’ortografia e nella sillabazione;
nessuna modifica è stata apportata al testo originale.
Il testo in corsivo è stato contrassegnato con trattini bassi.
Il testo in corsivo grassetto è stato contrassegnato con =segni di uguale=.
]
DELLO STESSO AUTORE
CHARLES DICKENS
LA BALLATA DEL CAVALLO BIANCO
LA LOCANDA VOLANTE
TUTTO SOMMATO
INEZIE FORMIDABILI
ALLARMI E DIGRESSIONI
UNA MISCELLANEA DI UOMINI
VINO, ACQUA
E CANTO
BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
TERZA EDIZIONE
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
Prima pubblicazione 6 agosto 1915
Seconda edizione 10 agosto 1915
Terza edizione 23 agosto 1915
NOTA
I Canti di questo libro sono tratti da «LA LOCANDA VOLANTE», con
l’eccezione di «Il Buon Ricco» e «Il Canto dello Strano Asceta»,
che sono qui inclusi per gentile concessione del direttore di =The New
Witness=, dove apparvero originariamente.
INDICE
Pagina
L’Inglese 9
Vino e Acqua 11
Il Canto contro i Droghieri 15
La Strada Inglese Serpeggiante 20
Pionieri, o Pionieri 27
Il Vegetariano Logico 31
«La Testa del Saraceno» 34
Il Buon Ricco 37
Il Mio Cuore 45
Il Canto della Quercia 49
La Strada per Roundabout 53
Il Canto dello Strano Asceta 57
Il Canto del Giusto e dell’Ingiusto 60
Chi Va a Casa? 63
L’Inglese
San Giorgio era per l’Inghilterra,
E prima di uccidere il drago
Bevve una pinta di birra inglese
Da un boccale inglese.
Perché, per quanto digiuni di buon grado
In cilicio o in cotta di maglia,
Non è prudente dargli focacce
Se non gli dai anche birra.
San Giorgio era per l’Inghilterra,
E con gran valore liberò
La dama lasciata in pasto al drago
E legata a un albero;
Ma poiché stava per l’Inghilterra
E sapeva che cosa l’Inghilterra significhi,
Se non gli dai del lardo
Non devi dargli fagioli.
San Giorgio è per l’Inghilterra,
E porterà lo scudo che portava
Quando usciremo in armatura
Con la croce di battaglia dinanzi.
Ma per quanto sia allegra compagnia
E ben lieto di pranzare,
Non è prudente dargli noci
Se non gli dai vino.
Vino e Acqua
Il vecchio Noè aveva un allevamento di struzzi e polli su vastissima scala,
Mangiava l’uovo con un mestolo in un portauovo grande come un secchio,
E la zuppa che prendeva era Zuppa d’Elefante e il pesce che prendeva era Balena,
Ma tutti erano piccoli rispetto alla cantina che prese quando salpò per navigare,
E Noè diceva spesso alla moglie quando si sedeva a cena,
«Non m’importa dove vada l’acqua purché non finisca nel vino».
La cateratta della rupe del cielo cadde accecante dall’orlo
Come se volesse spazzar via le stelle come la schiuma se ne va giù per un lavandino,
I sette cieli precipitarono ruggendo perché le gole dell’inferno bevessero,
E Noè strizzò l’occhio e disse: «Sembra pioggia, credo,
L’acqua ha annegato il Cervino profondo come una miniera del Mendip,
Ma non m’importa dove vada l’acqua purché non finisca nel vino».
Ma Noè peccò, e noi abbiamo peccato; su piedi brilli camminammo,
Finché un gran nero astemio ci fu inviato come verga,
E non puoi avere vino a una P.S.A., o cappella, o Eisteddfod,
Poiché la Maledizione dell’Acqua è tornata a causa dell’ira di Dio,
E l’acqua è sulla mensa del Vescovo e sull’altare del Pensatore Superiore,
Ma non m’importa dove vada l’acqua purché non finisca nel vino.
La Canzone contro i Droghieri
Dio creò il malvagio Droghiere
Per mistero e per segno,
Affinché gli uomini fuggissero le orribili botteghe
E andassero a desinare nelle locande;
Dove il lardo pende dalla trave
E il vino sta nella botte,
E Dio che fece il buon riso
Ha veduto che son cose buone.
Il Droghiere dal cuore malvagio
Chiamerebbe sua madre «Signora»,
E le si inchinerebbe e le farebbe riverenze,
Per dannare la sua vecchia anima,
E si sfregherebbe le orride mani e chiederebbe
Quale fosse il prossimo articolo,
Benché =mortis in articulo=
Dovrebbe essere il suo giusto motto.
I suoi sostegni non sono i suoi figli,
Ma sfacciati garzoni malpagati,
Che gridano «Cassa!» e sbatacchiano in giro
Per esercitare il suo malvagio traffico;
Tiene una dama in una gabbia
Con gran crudeltà tutto il giorno,
E la fa contare e la chiama «Signorina»
Finché ella non si spegne.
Le menti rette dei locandieri
Li inducono di quando in quando
A stappare una bottiglia con un amico
O a offrire da bere agli squattrinati,
Ma chi ha mai veduto il Droghiere
Offrire i suoi tè alle domestiche
O stappare una bottiglia di salsa di pesce
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 snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing-rooms.
The hell-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.
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;
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 Glastonbury 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.
God 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.
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 scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides’ adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God 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
Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews
Suffered from new and original views,
He crawled on his hands and knees, it’s said,
With grass in his mouth and a crown on his head.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
Those in traditional paths that trod
Thought the thing was a curse from God,
But a Pioneer men always abuse
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
Black Lord Foulon the Frenchman slew
Thought it a Futurist thing to do.
He offered them grass instead of bread.
So they stuffed him with grass when they cut off his head.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
For the pride of his soul he perished then—
But of course it is always of Pride that men,
A Man in Advance of his Age accuse,
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
Simeon Scudder of Styx, in Maine,
Thought of the thing and was at it again.
He gave good grass and water in pails
To a thousand Irishmen hammering rails.
With a wowtyiddly, etc.
Appetites differ; and tied to a stake
He was tarred and feathered for Conscience’ Sake.
But stoning the prophets is ancient news,
Like Nebuchadnezzar the King of the Jews.
The Logical Vegetarian
“Why shouldn’t I have a purely vegetarian drink? Why shouldn’t I take
vegetables in their highest form, so to speak? The modest vegetarians
ought obviously to stick to wine or beer, plain vegetarian drinks,
instead of filling their goblets with the blood of bulls and elephants,
as all conventional meat-eaters do, I suppose.”—Dalroy.
You will find me drinking rum,
Like a sailor in a slum,
You will find me drinking beer like a Bavarian.
You will find me drinking gin
In the lowest kind of inn,
Because I am a rigid Vegetarian.
So I cleared the inn of wine,
And I tried to climb the sign,
And I tried to hail the constable as “Marion.”
But he said I couldn’t speak,
And he bowled me to the Beak
Because I was a Happy Vegetarian.
Oh, I knew a Doctor Gluck,
And his nose it had a hook,
And his attitudes were anything but Aryan;
So I gave him all the pork
That I had, upon a fork;
Because I am myself a Vegetarian.
I am silent in the Club,
I am silent in the pub.,
I am silent on a bally peak in Darien;
O pagare a un uomo un formaggio?
Ci vende le sabbie d’Arabia
Come zucchero, pagamento in contanti;
Spazza la sua bottega e vende la polvere
Il sale più puro della città,
Rimpinza di scatole di carne avvelenata
I poveri sudditi del Re,
E quando muoiono a migliaia
Ebbene, ride a più non posso.
Il malvagio Droghiere drogheggia
In liquori e in vino,
Non francamente e in compagnia
Come gli uomini desinano nelle locande;
Ma stipato tra sapone e sardine
E portato via da staffieri,
Per essere afferrato dalle Duchesse
E bevuto nei camerini.
Il Droghiere istruito dall’inferno
Ha un tempio fatto di latta,
E la rovina dei buoni locandieri
Vi è ad alta voce perorata;
Ma ora la sabbia sta scorrendo via
Da uno zucchero d’un certo tipo,
Il Droghiere trema; poiché il suo tempo,
Proprio come il suo peso, è scarso.
Prima che il Romano giungesse a Rye o s’inoltrasse verso il Severn,
l’ondeggiante ubriacone inglese fece l’ondeggiante strada inglese.
Una strada barcollante, una ondeggiante strada, che vaga per la contea,
E dietro a lui corsero il parroco, il sagrestano e lo squire;
Una strada allegra, una strada labirintica, e tale quale calpestammo
La notte in cui andammo a Birmingham passando per Beachy Head.
Non sapevo alcun male di Bonaparte e molto dello Squire,
E a combattere il Francese non molto desideravo;
ma sfondai le loro baionette perché vennero schierati
a raddrizzare la storta strada che un ubriacone inglese fece,
Dove tu ed io scendemmo per il viottolo coi boccali di birra in mano,
la notte che andammo a Glastonbury passando per le Goodwin Sands.
I suoi peccati gli furono perdonati; o perché i fiori corrono
Dietro di lui; e le siepi tutte irrobustendosi al sole?
La cosa selvaggia andò da sinistra a destra e non sapeva qual era quale,
ma la rosa selvatica era sopra di lui quando lo trovarono nel fosso.
Dio ci perdoni, né ci induri; non vedemmo così chiaro
la notte che andammo a Bannockburn passando per il Molo di Brighton.
Amici miei, non vi torneremo né scimmiotteremo un’antica ira,
né a protrarre la follia della gioventù fino a farne la vergogna dell’età,
ma percorreremo con occhi e orecchi più limpidi questo sentiero che vagabonda,
e vedremo, non drogati, nella luce della sera, la decorosa locanda della Morte;
Poiché vi sono ancora buone novelle da udire e belle cose da vedere,
Prima di andare in Paradiso passando per Kensal Green.
Non hanno nasi, loro,
I decaduti figli di Eva;
Anche il profumo delle rose
Non è ciò che suppongano;
Ma più di quanto la mente riveli
E più di quanto gli uomini credano.
Non hanno nasi, loro,
Non riescono nemmeno a dire
Quando la porta si chiude e cala l’oscurità
Il parco che un ebreo recinì,
Dove anche la Legge di Mosè
Ti lascia rubare un odore.
Il brillante odore dell’acqua,
L’audace profumo di una pietra,
L’odore di rugiada e tuono,
Le vecchie ossa sepolte sotto,
Le cose in cui sbagliano
E sbagliare, se lasciati soli.
Il vento dalle foreste d’inverno,
Il profumo dei fiori senza odore fiori,
Il respiro dell’ornarsi delle spose,
L’odore di trappola e avvertimento,
Il profumo della mattina di domenica,
Dio ci diede come nostri.
… . .
E Quoodle qui rivela
Tutte le cose che Quoodle può,
Non hanno nasi, loro,
Non hanno nasi, loro,
E solo Dio sa
La Nasomancanza dell’Uomo.
Pionieri, o Pionieri
Nabucodonosor il Re dei Giudei
Ha sofferto per idee nuove e originali,
Strisciava su mani e ginocchia, si dice,
Con l’erba in bocca e una corona in capo.
Con un wowtyiddly eccetera,
Coloro che calcavano i sentieri tradizionali
Pensavano che la cosa fosse una maledizione di Dio,
Ma un Pioniere lo si insulta sempre
Come Nabucodonosor, il Re degli Ebrei.
Il nero Lord Foulon, che il Francese uccise,
Pensò fosse una cosa Futurista da fare.
Offrì loro erba invece di pane.
Così lo imbottirono d’erba quando gli tagliarono la testa.
Con un wowtyiddly eccetera,
Per l’orgoglio della sua anima perì allora…
Ma naturalmente è sempre di orgoglio che gli uomini,
Un Uomo in Anticipo sui Tempi, accusano,
Come Nabucodonosor, il Re degli Ebrei.
Simeon Scudder di Styx, nel Maine,
Pensò alla cosa e vi si rimise di nuovo.
Dava buon fieno e acqua nei secchi
A mille Irlandesi che martellavano rotaie.
Con un wowtyiddly eccetera,
Gli appetiti differiscono; e legato a un palo
Fu impeciato e impiumato per amor di Coscienza.
Ma lapidare i profeti è storia antica,
Come Nabucodonosor, il Re degli Ebrei.
Il Vegetariano Logico
«Perché non dovrei avere una bevanda puramente vegetariana? Perché non dovrei prendere
i vegetali nella loro forma più alta, per così dire? I modesti vegetariani
dovrebbero ovviamente attenersi al vino o alla birra, semplici bevande vegetariane,
invece di colmare i loro calici col sangue di tori ed elefanti,
come fanno tutti i convenzionali mangiatori di carne, suppongo». — Dalroy.
Mi troverai a bere rum,
Come un marinaio in un tugurio,
Mi troverai a bere birra come un Bavarese.
Mi troverai a bere gin
Nella più infima delle locande,
Perché sono un rigido Vegetariano.
Così vuotai la locanda del vino,
E cercai di arrampicarmi sull’insegna,
E cercai di salutare il poliziotto chiamandolo «Marion».
Ma egli disse che non sapevo parlare,
E mi spedì di filato dal Giudice
Perché ero un Felice Vegetariano.
Oh, conoscevo un Dottor Gluck,
E il suo naso aveva un uncino,
E i suoi atteggiamenti erano tutt’altro che ariani;
Così gli ho dato tutto il prosciutto
Che avevo, su una forchetta;
Perché io stesso sono un Vegetariano.
Sono silenzioso al Circolo,
Sono silenzioso al pub,
Sono silenzioso su una dannata vetta nel Darien;
For I stuff away for life
Shoving peas in with a knife,
Because I am at heart a Vegetarian.
No more the milk of cows
Shall pollute my private house
Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian;
I will stick to port and sherry,
For they are so very, very,
So very, very, very Vegetarian.
“The Saracen’s Head”
“The Saracen’s Head” looks down the lane,
Where we shall never drink wine again,
For the wicked old women who feel well-bred
Have turned to a tea-shop “The Saracen’s Head.”
“The Saracen’s Head” out of Araby came,
King Richard riding in arms like flame,
And where he established his folk to be fed
He set up a spear—and the Saracen’s Head.
But “The Saracen’s Head” outlived the Kings,
It thought and it thought of most horrible things,
Of Health and of Soap and of Standard Bread,
And of Saracen drinks at “The Saracen’s Head.”
So “The Saracen’s Head” fulfils its name,
They drink no wine—a ridiculous game—
And I shall wonder until I’m dead,
How it ever came into the Saracen’s Head.
The Good Rich Man
Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, he wouldn’t have wine or wife,
He couldn’t endure complexity: he lived the Simple Life.
He ordered his lunch by megaphone in manly, simple tones,
And used all his motors for canvassing voters, and twenty telephones;
Besides a dandy little machine,
Cunning and neat as ever was seen,
With a hundred pulleys and cranks between,
Made of metal and kept quite clean,
To hoist him out of his healthful bed on every day of his life,
And wash him and dress him and shave him and brush him
—to live the Simple Life.
Mr. Mandragon was most refined and quietly, neatly dressed,
Say all the American newspapers that know refinement best;
Quiet and neat the hat and hair and the coat quiet and neat,
A trouser worn upon either leg, while boots adorn the feet;
And not, as any one would expect,
A Tiger’s Skin all striped and specked,
And a Peacock Hat with the tail erect,
A scarlet tunic with sunflowers decked,
Which might have had a more marked effect,
And pleased the pride of a weaker man that yearned for wine or wife;
But Fame and the Flagon, for Mr. Mandragon
—obscured the Simple Life.
Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead;
He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a Crematorium shed.
And he lies there fluffy and soft and grey and certainly quite refined;
When he might have 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 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.
Poiché mi rimpinzo per la vita
Infilare i piselli con un coltello,
Perché in cuore sono un Vegetariano.
Non più il latte di mucca
Contaminerà la mia privata dimora
Più del latte delle cavalle selvagge del Barbaro;
Mi atterrò al porto e allo sherry,
Poiché sono così tanto, tanto,
Così tanto, tanto, tanto Vegetariani.
«La Testa del Saraceno»
«La Testa del Saraceno» guarda giù per il vicolo,
Dove non berremo mai più vino,
Poiché le malvagie vecchie che si sentono ben educate
Hanno mutato in una sala da tè «La Testa del Saraceno».
«La Testa del Saraceno» venne dall’Arabia,
Re Richard cavalcando in armi come fiamma,
e dove stabilì che la sua gente fosse nutrita
Piantò una lancia… e la Testa del Saraceno.
Ma «La Testa del Saraceno» sopravvisse ai Re,
Pensò e ripensò a cose orribilissime,
Di Salute e di Sapone e di Pane Standard,
E di bevande saracene a «La Testa del Saraceno».
Così «La Testa del Saraceno» compie il suo nome,
Non bevono vino… un gioco ridicolo…
E mi stupirò finché non sarò morto,
Come mai sia entrato nella Testa del Saraceno.
Il Buon Ricco
Il signor Mandragon, il Milionario, non voleva né vino né moglie,
Non sopportava la complessità: viveva la Vita Semplice.
Ordinava il pranzo col megafono, in toni virili e semplici,
E usava tutte le sue automobili per far campagna fra gli elettori, e venti telefoni;
Oltre a una graziosa macchinetta,
Ingegnosa e linda come mai se ne vide,
Con cento pulegge e manovelle in mezzo,
Fatto di metallo e tenuto ben pulito,
Per issarlo fuori dal suo salubre letto ogni giorno della sua vita,
E lavarlo e vestirlo e raderlo e spazzolarlo
…per vivere la Vita Semplice.
Il signor Mandragon era assai raffinato e vestito con quieta eleganza,
Lo dicono tutti i giornali americani che meglio conoscono la raffinatezza;
Quieto e lindo il cappello e i capelli e la giacca quieta e linda,
Un pantalone indossato su ciascuna gamba, mentre gli stivali ornano i piedi;
E non, come chiunque si aspetterebbe,
Una Pelle di Tigre tutta striata e macchiettata,
E un Cappello a Pavone con la coda eretta,
Una tunica scarlatta adorna di girasoli,
Che avrebbe potuto avere un effetto più marcato,
E allietare l’orgoglio di un uomo più debole, bramoso di vino o di moglie;
Ma la Fama e il Boccale, per il signor Mandragon
…offuscarono la Vita Semplice.
Il signor Mandragon, il Milionario, sono lieto di dirlo, è morto;
Godette di un quieto funerale in un capannone di Crematorio.
E giace là soffice e molle e grigio e certamente assai raffinato;
Quando avrebbe potuto marcire in fiori e frutta con Adamo e tutto il genere umano,
O essere divorato da lupi assetati di sangue,
O arso su una bella alta pira di legna,
In una fiamma torreggiante, come s’addice a un pagano,
O persino sedere con noi qui a mensa,
Prendendo allegramente birra da due soldi e maiale con un temperino;
Ma questo era un lusso non per chi mirava alla Vita Semplice.
Il canto del dolore di Melisande è un canto fiacco e un canto tetro,
La gloria della fattoria di Mariana era caduta in gran rovina,
La canzone del Corvo Mai Più non è mai stata detta una canzone gaia,
E le cose più luminose in Baudelaire sono tutto fuorché allegre.
Ma chi ci scriverà una canzone da cavallo,
O una canzone da caccia o una canzone da bevuta,
Degno di coloro che si levarono e cavalcarono
Quando il giorno e il vino erano rossi?
Ma portatemi fuori un boccale di chiaretto,
E io vi scriverò una canzone tintinnante,
Un canto di guerra e un canto di vino
E una canzone da destare i morti.
Il canto della furia di Fragolette è un canto florido e un canto torrido,
La canzone del dolore di Tara si canta su un’arpa senza corde,
Il canto dell’allegro Giovane dello Shropshire lo considero un canto perfettamente orrendo,
E il canto del felice Futurista è un canto che non si può cantare.
Ma chi ci scriverà un canto da cavalcata
O una canzone da battaglia o una canzone da bevuta,
Degna dei padri tuoi e miei,
Che sapevano pensare e prosperare?
Ma la canzone della Bellezza e dell’Arte e dell’Amore
È semplicemente una canzone del tutto puzzolente,
Da piegarti in due e trascinarti giù
E dannare la tua anima da viva.
Il Mio Cuore
Vengo da Castlepatrick, e il mio cuore è sulla mia manica,
E qualsiasi ragazzo con spada o pistola può colpirlo col mio permesso,
Vi brilla come una spallina, dorato come una fiamma,
Nudo come i miei antenati, nobile come il mio nome.
Poiché vengo da Castlepatrick, e il mio cuore è sulla mia manica,
Ma una dama me lo rubò la Vigilia di San Gallowglass.
La gente che vive a Liverpool, ha il cuore negli stivali;
Vanno all’inferno come agnelli, davvero, perché la sirena fischia.
Dove agli uomini non è concesso danzare, benché le ruote danzino tutto il giorno;
E agli uomini non è concesso fumare; ma solo ai camini sì.
Ma vengo da Castlepatrick, e il mio cuore è sulla mia manica,
Ma una dama me lo rubò la Vigilia di San Poleander.
La gente che vive nella nera Belfast, ha il cuore in gola,
Ci vedono commettere omicidi nei prati del Sud;
Credono che un aratro sia un cavalletto di tortura, davvero, e che i richiami del bestiame siano credi,
E credono che stiamo bruciando streghe quando bruciamo solo erbacce;
Ma io vengo da Castlepatrick, e il mio cuore è sulla manica;
Ma una dama me lo rubò la Vigilia di San Barnaba.
La Canzone della Quercia
I Druidi agitavano i loro coltelli d’oro
E danzavano intorno alla Quercia
quand’avevano sacrificato un uomo;
Ma per quanto i dotti cerchino e scrutino,
nessuna singola persona moderna può
A cogliere del tutto lo scherzo.
ma benché tagliassero la gola agli uomini
non abbatterono l’albero,
e dal sangue spuntarono i virgulti
dei boschi di quercia ancora a venire.
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
(If I may be allowed the term)
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
(To steal a phrase Sir Walter Scott
In heaven no longer needs),
Such dance around the trysting-place
The moonstruck lover leads;
Which superstition I should scout
There is more faith in honest doubt
(As Tennyson has pointed out)
Than in those nasty creeds.
But peace and righteousness (St. John)
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 (=Daily Mail=).
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
(Although I run and run),
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.
As for all the windy waters,
They were rained like tempests down
When good drink had been dishonoured
By the tipplers of the town;
When red wine had brought red ruin
And the death-dance of our times,
Heaven sent us Soda Water
As a torment for our crimes.
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
Ma Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
marcisce l’albero come farebbe l’edera,
s’aggrappa e striscia come farebbe l’edera
attorno al sacro albero.
Re Carlo fuggì dalla battaglia di Worcester
e si nascose in una Quercia;
nelle scuole conventuali nessun uomo di tatto
vorrebbe ripercorrere e lodare ogni suo atto,
o sostenere che fosse in realtà
Un tipo austero e santificato,
ma non per opera sua i sacri boschi
hanno perduto le loro libere fantasie,
E benché fosse estremamente grosso
non spezzò l’albero.
Ma Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
Spezza l’albero come farebbe l’edera,
e divora i boschi come farebbe l’edera
tra noi e il mare.
Il grande Collingwood scese per la radura
e sparse liberamente le ghiande,
perché querce fossero ancora nel bosco
Querciose quanto le travi lassù,
quando il grande Amato che i marinai amano
fu baciato dalla Morte in mare.
Ma benché per lui cadessero le querce
a costruire le navi di quercia,
il boscaiolo venerava ciò che colpiva
e onorava persino le schegge.
Ma Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
odia l’albero come farebbe l’edera,
Come farebbe il drago dell’edera
Che ci tiene nella sua stretta.
La Strada per Roundabout
Alcuni dicono che Guido di Warwick,
L’uomo che uccise la Vacca
E spezzò vivo il possente Cinghiale
Oltre il Ponte di Slough;
mosse contro un Verme ripugnante
che devastava tutte le Downs,
e così le strade si torcono e si contorcono
(se mi è concesso il termine)
per il dimenarsi del Verme colpito
che morì in sette borghi.
Non vedo prova scientifica
che questa idea sia fondata,
e direi che serpeggiavano attorno
per trovare il borgo di Roundabout,
L’allegra città di Roundabout,
che fa girare il mondo.
Alcuni dicono che Robin Goodfellow,
La cui lanterna illumina i prati
(per rubare una frase che Sir Walter Scott
In cielo non ha più bisogno),
guidi tale danza attorno al luogo dell’incontro
che l’amante rapito dalla luna conduce;
La qual superstizione dovrei respingere
V’è più fede in un onesto dubbio
(come Tennyson ha fatto notare)
che in quei laidi credi.
Ma pace e giustizia (san Giovanni)
a Roundabout possono baciarsi,
E poiché è tutto ciò che si trova attorno
al piacevole borgo di Roundabout,
le strade semplicemente rimbalzano attorno
per scoprire dove esso sia.
Alcuni dicono che quando Sir Lancillotto
partì in cerca del Graal,
il grigio Merlino corrugò le strade
nella speranza ch’egli fallisse;
tutte le strade riconducevano a Lyonesse
E a Camelot nella Valle,
Non posso dare assenso a questa
stravagante ipotesi,
il semplice, accorto Britanno respingerà
Tali dicerie (=Daily Mail=).
Ma nelle vie di Roundabout
non si trovano fazioni siffatte,
Né teorie da esporre attorno,
né su cui rotolarsi al suolo intorno,
Nella felice città di Roundabout,
che fa girare il mondo.
Se fossi stato un Pagano,
Avrei lodato la purpurea vite,
I miei schiavi avrebbero zappato le vigne,
E io avrei bevuto il vino;
Ma Higgins è un Pagano,
E i suoi schiavi si fanno magri e grigi,
Affinché egli possa bere un po’ di latte tiepido
Esattamente due volte al giorno.
Se fossi stato un Pagano,
Avrei incoronato i riccioli di Neera,
E colmato la mia vita di relazioni d’amore,
La mia casa di fanciulle danzanti;
Ma Higgins è un Pagano,
Ed è costretto alle sale di conferenza,
Dove le sue zie, che non sono sposate,
Pretendono di essere divorziate.
Se fossi stato un Pagano,
Avrei mandato avanti i miei eserciti,
E trascinato dietro i miei carri
I Capi del Nord.
Ma Higgins è un Pagano,
E spinge la tetra penna d’oca,
Per prestare ai poveri quel buffo denaro
Che li rende ancor più poveri.
Se fossi stato un Pagano,
Avrei innalzato in alto la mia pira,
E in un gran rosso turbine
Sarei salito ruggendo al cielo;
Ma Higgins è un Pagano,
E un uomo più ricco di me;
E lo misero in un forno,
Proprio come se fosse una torta.
Ora chi corre può leggerlo,
L’enigma che scrivo,
Del perché questo povero vecchio peccatore,
Debba peccare senza diletto…?
Ma io, io non riesco a leggerlo
(Benché corra e corra),
Di coloro che non hanno la fede,
E non vogliono il divertimento.
Il Canto del Giusto e dell’Ingiusto
Banchetta col vino o digiuna con l’acqua,
E il tuo onore rimarrà saldo,
Figlio e figlia di Dio Onnipotente
Egli il valoroso, ella la pura;
Se un angelo giù dal cielo
Ti porta altre cose da bere,
Ringrazialo per le sue gentili premure,
E va’ a versarle giù nel lavandino.
Il tè è come l’Oriente in cui cresce,
Un grande giallo Mandarino
Con urbanità di modi
E incoscienza del peccato;
Tutte le donne, come un harem,
Gli marciano dietro al codino;
E, come tutto l’Oriente in cui cresce,
È Veleno quando è forte.
Il tè, benché Orientale,
È almeno un gentiluomo;
Il cacao è un mascalzone e un vigliacco,
Il cacao è una bestia volgare,
Il cacao è uno scialbo, sleale,
Mendace, strisciante mascalzone e buffone,
E può ben essere grato
Allo sciocco che lo trangugia.
Quanto a tutte le acque ventose,
Furono fatte piovere come tempeste
Quando la buona bevanda era stata disonorata
Dai beoni della città;
Quando il rosso vino aveva portato rossa rovina
E la morte-danza dei nostri tempi,
il Cielo ci mandò l’Acqua di Soda
Come tormento per i nostri delitti.
Chi Va a Casa?
Nella città posta su melma e fango
Gridano nel loro parlamento «Chi va a casa?»
E non giunge risposta né da arco né da cupola,
poiché nessuno nella città delle tombe va a casa.
Eppure costoro periranno e comprenderanno,
poiché Dio ha pietà di questa grande terra.
Uomini che sono di nuovo uomini; chi va a casa?
Campana a stormo e trombettiere! Chi va a casa?
Poiché c’è sangue sul campo e sangue sulla schiuma
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
*CHARLES DICKENS.
With 2 Portraits in Photogravure. Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s.
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.
THE FLYING INN. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s. Also Crown 8vo, 2s. net.
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE. Fifth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 5s.
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.
*ALL THINGS CONSIDERED. Seventh Edition.
TREMENDOUS TRIFLES. Fifth Edition.
ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS. Second Edition.
A MISCELLANY OF MEN. Second Edition.
- An edition in cloth, Fcap. 8vo, 1s. net, is also issued.
METHUEN & CO. LTD. LONDON
E sangue sul corpo quando l’Uomo torna a casa.
E una voce d’addio… Chi è per la Vittoria?
Chi è per la Libertà? Chi torna a casa?
Stampato in Gran Bretagna da
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, STAMPATORI, WOKING E LONDRA
ALCUNI DELIZIOSI LIBRI DI G. K. CHESTERTON
*CHARLES DICKENS.
Con 2 ritratti in fotoincisione. Ottava edizione. Crown 8vo, 6s.
Un celebre libro su Dickens, concepito come una giustificazione generale di
quell’autore. Il signor Chesterton confronta le immense conquiste prodotte
dall’ottimismo di Dickens nel campo della riforma con gli scarsi risultati
prodotti dal metodo pessimistico dei tempi più recenti. Egli tratta a turno ciascuno dei
romanzi, e dedica l’ultima parte del suo libro a una valutazione generale
dell’influenza di Dickens.
LA LOCANDA VOLANTE. Terza edizione. Crown 8vo, 6s. Anche Crown 8vo, 2s. netto.
LA BALLATA DEL CAVALLO BIANCO. Quinta edizione. Fcap. 8vo, 5s.
Una ballata sul regno di re Alfredo. Descrive le nobili
imprese di quel monarca, il suo carattere, la sua lotta con i Danesi, la storia del
Cavallo Bianco, e la battaglia di Ethandune.
LETTERE A UN VECCHIO GARIBALDINO. Crown 8vo, 3d. netto.
SAGGI
Fcap. 8vo. Taglio superiore dorato. 5s. ciascuno.
*TUTTO CONSIDERATO. Settima edizione.
FORMIDABILI INEZIE. Quinta edizione.
ALLARMI E DIVAGAZIONI. Seconda edizione.
UNA MISCELLANEA DI UOMINI. Seconda edizione.
- È disponibile anche un’edizione in tela, Fcap. 8vo, 1s. netto.
METHUEN & CO. LTD. LONDRA