Woods Poems: 266 / 500

A Cider Song

Rating: 2.8

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.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Philip Weaver 14 August 2018

You've spelled Hereford wrongly all the way rthrough.

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Thomas Moon 12 March 2019

Everywhere I've found this poem on the Internet, Hereford is spelt wrong. They must have got them all from the same misspelt source.

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