Eclectic Amateur

G. K. Chesterton: By the Babe Unborn

                      "By the Babe Unborn"

                      by G.K. Chesterton



              If trees were tall and grasses short,
                As in some crazy tale,
              If here and there a sea were blue
                Beyond the breaking pale,
            
              If a fixed fire hung in the air
                To warm me one day through,
              If deep green hair grew on great hills,
                I know what I should do.
            
              In dark I lie; dreaming that there
                Are great eyes cold or kind,
              And twisted streets and silent doors,
                And living men behind.
            
              Let storm clouds come: better an hour,
                And leave to weep and fight,
              Than all the ages I have ruled
                The empires of the night.
            
              I think that if they gave me leave
                Within the world to stand,
              I would be good through all the day
                I spent in fairyland.
            
              They should not hear a word from me
                Of selfishness or scorn,
              If only I could find the door,
                If only I were born.

A Ballade Of An Anti-puritan

They spoke of Progress spiring round,
Of light and Mrs Humphrey Ward–
It is not true to say I frowned,
Or ran about the room and roared;
I might have simply sat and snored–
I rose politely in the club
And said, `I feel a little bored;
Will someone take me to a pub?’

The new world’s wisest did surround
Me; and it pains me to record
I did not think their views profound,
Or their conclusions well assured;
The simple life I can’t afford,
Besides, I do not like the grub–
I want a mash and sausage, `scored’–
Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found,
Anger and clamorous accord,
And virtues growing from the ground,
And fellowship of beer and board,
And song, that is a sturdy cord,
And hope, that is a hardy shrub,
And goodness, that is God’s last word–
Will someone take me to a pub?

Envoi
Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword
To see the sort of knights you dub–
Is that the last of them–O Lord
Will someone take me to a pub?

This is one reason why I love G. K. Chesterton.