I was introducted to this WW1 poem a few years ago. It always makes me cry. Unfortunately I took out most of the dialect (spellings, contractions, etc.) and I don't have the original so this is not as good as the way it was written. It should be read with stong British slang
Well? (dialect softened)
by GA Studdert Kennedy
Our Padre were a solemn bloke,
We called him dismal Jim.
It fair gave ye the blooming creeps,
To sit and hark at him,
When he went on 'bout Judgment Day,
About that great white throne,
And how each chap would have to stand,
And answer on his own.
And if he tried to chance his arm,
And hide a single sin,
There’d be the angel Gabriel,
With books to do him in.
He had it all writ down, he said,
And nothin' could be hid,
He had it all in black and white,
And He would take no kid.
And every single idle word,
A soldier chanced to say,
He’d have it all thrown back at him,
In court on Judgement Day.
Well I kept minding Billy Briggs,
A pal of mine what died.
He went to help our sergeant Smith,
But as he reached his side,
There came and bust atween his legs,
And I picked up his corporal’s stripes,
That’s all there were of Bill.
I called to mind a stinking night
When we was carrying tea.
We went round there by Limerick Lane ,
and Bill were ahead of me.
‘Twere raining heavens hard, ye know,
And the boards was thick with muck,
And umpteen times we slithered down,
And got the dicksee[3] stuck.
Well, when we got there by the switch,
A loose board tipped right up,
And Bill, he turned a somersault,
And down he came and whup!
I’ve heard men blind, I’ve heard 'em cuss,
And I’ve heard them do it hard;
Well, haven’t I heard our R.S.M.,
Inspecting special guard!
But Bill, he left them standing still.
He turned the black night blue,
And I guess the angel Gabriel
Had short hand work to do.
Well, how would poor old Bill go on,
When he stood all alone,
And had to hear that tale read out
Afore that great white throne?
If what our padre says is right,
He’d have a rotten spell,
And finish up of it, I s’pose,
He’d have to go to 'ell.
And yet he were a decent lad,
And met a decent end;
You’ll never finish decenter,
Than trying to help a friend.
But somehow I can’t think it’s right,
It ain’t what God would do.
This stunt of all these record books,
I think it’s all napoo[4],
‘Twould let some rotten beggars in,
And keep some good ‘uns out,
There’s lots of blokes, what does no wrong,
As can’t do naught but shout.
But t’other night I dreamed a dream,
And, just ‘twixt me and you,
I never dreamed like that afore:
I half think it were true.
I dreamed as I were dead, ye see,
At least as I had died,
For I were very much alive,
Out there on the other side.
I couldn’t see no judgment court,
Nor yet that great white throne,
I couldn’t see no record books,
I seemed to stand alone.
I seemed to stand alone, beside
A solemn kind of sea.
Its waves they got in my inside,
And touched my memory,
And day by day, and year by year,
My life came back to me.
I seed just what I were, and what
I’d had the chance to be.
And all the good I might of done,
And hadn’t stopped to do.
I seed I’d made a dash of it,
And God! but it were true.
A throng of faces came and went,
Afore me on that shore,
My wife, and mother, kiddies, pals,
And the face of a London
And some was sweet, and some was sad,
And some put me to shame,
For the dirty things I’d done to them,
When I hadn’t played the game.
Then in the silence some one stirred,
Like when a sick man groans,
And a kind of shivering chill ran through
The marrow of my bones.
And there before me some one stood,
Just looking down at me,
And still behind Him moaned and moaned
That everlasting sea.
I couldn’t speak, I felt as though
He had me by the throat,
‘Twere like a drowning fellah feels,
Last moment he’s afloat.
And He said naught, He just stood still
For I dunno how long.
It seemed to me like years and years,
But time out there’s all wrong.
“What was He like?” you’re asking now.
Can’t word it anyway,
He just were Him, that’s all I knows.
There’s things as words can’t say.
It seems to me as though His face
Were millions rolled in one;
It never changed yet always changed,
Like the sea beneath the sun.
‘Twere all men’s face yet no man’s face,
And a face no man can see,
And it seemed to say in silent speech,
“Ye did them all to Me.
The dirty things ye did to them,
The filth ye thought was fine,
Ye did them all to Me,” it said,
“For all their souls were Mine.”
All eyes was in His eyes – all eyes,
My wife’s and a million more;
And once I thought as those two eyes
Were the eyes of the London
And they was sad – my God, how sad,
With tears that seemed to shine,
And quivering bright with the speech of light
They said, “Her soul was Mine.”
And then at last He said one word,
He just said one word – “Well?”
And I said in a funny voice,
“Please can I go to Hell?”
And He stood an' looked at me,
And He kind of seemed to grow.
Till He shone like the sun above my head,
And then He answered “No
You can’t, that Hell is for the blind,
And not for those that see.
You know that you have earned it, lad,
So you must follow Me.
Follow me on the paths of pain,
Seeking what you have seen,
Until at last you can build the ‘Is’
With the bricks of the ‘Might have been.’”
That’s what He said, as I’m alive,
And that there dream were true.
But what He meant – I don’t quite know,
Though I know what I has to do.
I’s got to follow what I’s seen,
Till this old carcass dies;
For I daren’t face in the land of grace
The sorrow of those eyes.
There ain’t no throne, and there ain’t no books,
It’s Him you’ve got to see,
It’s Him, just Him, that is the Judge
Of blokes like you and me.
And, boys, I’d sooner frizzle up,
In the flames of a burning Hell,
Than stand and look into His face,
And hear His voice say – “Well?”
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