I made this post, because I had to share some of Chesterton's poems!

First off, I am not really big into poetry. I don't even listen to music that much really. (I hardly know the names of any music groups). Yet I found that I love Chesterton's poetry. Granted, that's not much of a surprise perhaps. I would probably find Chesterton's grocery list a "masterpiece" and a "work of art". I'm not exactly objective.

However, Chesterton could write all kinds of poetry, from the silly to the profound, from short poems to great epics, from drinking songs to beautiful church hymns. Below I have included just a few of his poems that I have found very good. (As I am not into poetry, I haven't really explored Chesterton's poetry. And he had hundreds of poems. So there's much more out there to explore). Anyway....
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First, a drinking song! From his novel <i>The Flying Inn</i> (1914)

<b>Wine and Water</b>

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale,
He ate his egg with a ladle in a egg-cup big as a pail,
And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and 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.

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George Bernard Shaw relates a somewhat humurous story concerning "Wine and Water" in a letter he wrote to Chesterton concerning an incident that he had witnessed at the headquarters of the Fabian Society:

"As I descended the stairs I was stunned by the most infernal din I have ever heard...coming from the Fabian Hall....On rushing to this temple I found the young enthusiasts sprawling over tables, over radiators, over everything except chairs, in  a state of scandalous abandonment, roaring at the tops of their voices and in a quite unintelligible manner a string of presumably obscene songs, accompanied on the piano with frantic gestures and astonishing musical skill by a man whom I had always regarded as a respectable Fabian Researcher...As they went on (for I regret to say that my presence excercised no restraint whatever) they sang their extraordinary and incomprehensible litany to every tune, however august its associations, which happened to fit it...

But I have not told you the worst. Before I fled the building I did at last discover what words it was they were singing. When it first flashed on me, I really could not believe it. But at the end of the next verse no doubt or error was possible. The young maenad nearest me was concluding every strophe by shrieking that she didn't care where the water went if it didn't get into the wine. Now you know.

I have since ascertained that a breviary of this Black Mass can be obtained at the Fabian Office, with notes of the numbers of the hymns Ancient and Modern, and all the airs sacred and profane, to which your poems have been set.

This letter needs no answer- indeed, admits of none. I leave you to your reflections."

(<i>Wisdom and Innocence</i>, pp. 223-224)

OF course, Chesterton would have been quite amused and pleased about that incident. The song served its purpose well!
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The next poem deals with the "irony of joyless millionaires who think like pagans, but live like puritans" (<i>Common Sense 101</i>, p. 93)

<b>Song of the Strange Ascetic</b>

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 Neaera'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.
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Here's another good poem of Chesterton's, again from his novel <i>The Flying Inn</i>...

<B>The Logical Vegetarian</b>

"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 to stick to wine or beer, plain vegetable 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 know 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 a rigid 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.
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Here is perhaps Chesterton's most famous poem:

<b>The Donkey</b>

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
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In his adolescence, Chesterton was troubled by thoughts of suicide (described in his autobiography in the chapter titled "How to be a Lunatic"). In response to this he went on to develop his typically positive attitude that was to characterize his life. With that background in mind, here is an excerpt from his poem "A Ballad of Suicide".

<B>A Ballad of Suicide</b>

The Gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose in a knowing way
As one that ties his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours on the wall
Are drawing a long breath to shout ‘Hurray!’
The strangest whim has seized me...After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

(<a href="http://www.themediadrome.com/content/poetry/chesterton_ballade_of_suicide.htm">Here's</a> a link to the complete poem)
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Here is an excerpt from Chesterton's poem "The Secret People":

<b>The Secret People</b>

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

(<a href="http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~martinh/poems/SECRET">Here's</a> a link to the complete poem).
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<b>Elegy in a Country Churchyard<b>

The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.

And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England,
They have no graves as yet.
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Here is a hymn that Chesterton wrote. "This hymn, normally sung to a traditional English melody arranged by Vaughan Williams, combined a complete mixture of theological humility with the anger of Christ in the temple." (<i>Wisdom and Innocence</i>, p. 191):

<b>O God of Earth and Altar</b>

O God of earth and altar,
Bow down and hear our cry,
Our earthly rulers falter,
Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
The swords of scorn divide,
Take not thy thunder from us,
But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
From lies of tongue and pen,
From all the easy speeches
That comfort cruel men,
From sale and profanation
Of honour and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation,
Deliver us, good Lord.

Tie in a living tether
The prince and priest and thrall,
Bind all our lives together,
Smite us and save us all;
In ire and exultation
Aflame with faith, and free,
Lift up a living nation,
A single sword to thee.

(To hear the music for this song, you may go to <a href="http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/o/g/ogodofea.htm">Cyber Hymnal</a>
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Finally, here are a couple of excerpts from <i>The Ballad of the White Horse</i>, one of the great epic poems in the English language, frequently quoted in the London papers during World War 2.

<b>The Ballad of the White Horse</b>

For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.

"At the beginning of the poem, the Blessed Virgin appears to King Alfred, and he asks her if he is going to win the upcoming battle. Her reply is not what he expects" (<i>Common Sense 101</i> p. 96):

The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
We do not guard our gold,
Men may uproot where worlds begin,
Or read the name of the nameless sin;
But if he fail or if he win
To no good man is told.
 
The men of the East may spell the stars,
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark.
 
The men of the East may search the scrolls
For sure fates and fame,
But the men that drink the blood of God
Go singing to their shame.
 
The wise men know what wicked things
Are written on the sky,
They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,
Hearing the heavy purple wings,
Where the forgotten seraph kings
Still plot how God shall die.
 
The wise men know all evil things
Under the twisted trees,
Where the perverse in pleasure pine
And men are weary of green wine
And sick of crimson seas.
 
But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.
 
I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.
 
Night shall be thrice night over you,
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?

(<a href="http://www.cse.dmu.ac.uk/~mward/gkc/books/white-horse2.html">Here's</a> a link to the complete poem).
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In conclusion, I'll just quote Dale Ahlquist:

"The people who read Chesterton are usually drawn to him by his timelly and quotable essays, his social and literary criticism, his eloquent defense of the Christian faith, or, if none of that does the trick, his detective fiction. But Chesterton also published several volumes of poetry during his life. In fact, his first two books, both published in 1900, were books of poetry. And when he died in 1936, many of his obituaries predicted that G.K. Chesterton woulld be best remembered as a poet." (<i>Common Sense 101</i>, p. 89)

"