Church
I
Good morning, Joe!
I'm glad to see you by the window, so —
A nasty time you've had,
Bad!
Eh?
The doctor — " a good feller " ?
I daresay,
I've never been ill mysen, you see,
So ain't had nowt to do with he.
" I shall know about it if ever I'm ill " ?
Mebbe I will,
But ... Joe ...
About you, though —
I'm sure you're getting better now,
Your colour's back, and, anyhow,
You're looking fine:
It's a good sign:
What? — what!
Doan't say so!
Come — Joe —
Rubbish, man!
Doan't give up living while you can,
Sich nonsense talking about dying;
It's 'coz you've been so long a-lying,
Just 'coz you're weeak and low,
But ...that'll go;
The crops is looking splendid down the Fen,
The wheeat's in ear,
Harvest's near,
And very soon we'll have you out again.
II.
D'ye mean it, Joe?
" You've known it all along " ?
I hope you're wrong!
But ... if it's so —
I wouldn't have you deceive yoursen.
'Tis best to know —
You'll want me to fetch your parson, then?
No!
You must want parson to get you ready,
You've allers been to Church that steady —
Not what I call religious, though;
Often I've wanted to talk to you, Joe —
Serious like, but never got started,
That chicken-hearted!
You've gone to Church and prayed o' Sunday,
But never carried it over Monday —
Church foak dudn't —
I know!
That's not religion, though;
Religion lives wi' you,
In bed at night,
By dark or light,
Never from sight,
Allers there,
Everywhere;
The sureness of Hell —
For there is a Hell —
That awful fire down below,
Where all what isn't saved must go,
You too — poor Joe!
Unless you're saved.
But ... you know —
You can be saved,
Salvation's free
For everyone, for you, for me;
You've only got to say the word,
It'll be heard; it'll be heard;
And now — let's say a prayer together.
No?
When Death is staring in your face!
Surely you'll wake and seek for grace,
Surely, then ... Joe!
III
Wait a bit, Jim, and lissen, now, to me,
I doan't want to be " saved " — as you would say —
Not if 'tis arned your chapel-going way;
It's nowt to judge you by, as I can see;
Look at our precious neighbour, Tommy Stower,
One of your saints, a reg'lar chapel-goer;
Preaches about and goes to all your " do's " ,
Looked on as most religious in his views,
A pious man!
Held up to answer, " Can religion pay? "
A-course it can!
Hasn't it paid your Tommy Stower well?
But — Jim —
Would you take his word when he's anything to sell?
About a horse? ...
He keeps within the law for fear of worse,
Knowing exactly just how far to go;
His word it isn't worth a tinker's curse!
Why — Jim —
Noabody ever dreams of trusting him,
And — being so —
Ain't he the very worst man as you know?
Nay, lad, you couldn't doubt
As he's the blackest rascal hereabout,
Look how he leads astray his weaker neighbours,
What sees him prosper by his wicked labours;
They foller on to do what he has done,
Him what has risen from a poor man's son,
Thinking how fine are his religious ways
What gets him straight to heaven — yet allers pays —
Though — mind you, Jim,
There's plenty goes to chapel besides him
What's just as straight and square as they can go —
Chaps like yoursen,
The fairest men;
That's not what I was meaning, though,
For both sorts goes and prays together.
Birds of a very different feather,
Some of 'em hypocrites, and more —
Isn't he one, your pious Stower?
Isn't he one?
Look at the wicked things as he has done!
And — Jim —
He's stronger — far — than we,
He spreads hissen just like the " green bay tree " .
Parson once said:
" The evil what men does lives after 'em,
" The good is moastly buried wi' their bones. "
That's true, you know!
And — being so —
Your Stower —
Your pious chapel-goer —
He'll carry on when you and me lies flat;
Mind that!
IV
What do I believe then?
I'll tell you, Jim.
I believe in doing fair to all men,
Even to Tommy Stower,
Even to him.
It's been hard:
He's a bad card!
But I tried to mind as he didn't cheat me,
Yes, I took good care;
I didn't want rascals like him to beat me,
Soa I treated him fair;
What I ask of others is just the same,
" Do to others as you'll be done to, "
That's about all as life'll run to.
That's my religion, Jim,
That's my game.
You can't ask more on this rum owd earth,
What's full of kinks and knotty places,
And hypocrites wi' smiling faces —
Wrong uns from birth.
It's not a perfect world,
It's not a righteous world,
Yet it's not a bad world;
If a man does fair you can't ask for more;
As I said afore,
It matters nowt where he goas to pray —
Whether chapel or church —
Wherever he perch,
Or whatever he say —
That's nowt to do wi' his inner man.
It's niver noa guide to his inner plan.
You've got to judge a tree by its fruit.
Not by the garden where it has root,
And so you must judge a man by his life —
How he sarves his friends —
How he gains his ends —
How he treats his wife;
If he passes that test he's good enough —
Not far astray —
But
Otherway —
He's wrong!
Noa matter where he may belong —
He's wrong!
V
I've gone to Church like feyther did:
When I was but a little kid
I set wi' him agen the door,
My feet could hardly touch the floor,
And everything was strange to me;
But through the porch I loved to see
The birds what chirped and flew about.
To see the flowers peeping out,
Or listen to the humming bees,
Or watch the clouds across the trees;
And, later, I was glad to go:
'Twas reg'lar, and it pleased me so
To sit where feyther did, and hear
The selfsame things come year by year.
Not keep a-squinting at my soul
To see if it be " saved " or no,
Like something planted in a hole,
Raved up to find if it will grow,
'Coz that's what little childer does:
There's summat wrong wi' sich a buzz.
*****
Some niver thinks unless they're ill;
P'r'aps they're afraid to face their bill;
They reckon as a parson's prayer
Will somehow put 'em on the square,
Thinking they're like the dying thief —
It's only thieves wants such relief —
I'm sartin Tommy Stower will —
You'll see, if ever he be ill!
*****
Parson will come this afternoon —
'Tis on his round — he'll be here, soon,
And read to me the regular prayer,
One for the sick, all right and square.
Soa, come what may, I shall scramble along,
Noa patching me up at the very last breath,
Noa trying to get me ready for Death —
What's the good of that if your life's been wrong?
VI
I'm staring Death full in the face,
It's just about the end of my race;
I can't mend it,
I can only end it.
But — Jim —
Whatever's waiting for me yonder —
I often wonder —
Whether it's Peter or, mebbe, Paul,
Or p'r'aps there's noabody at all!
But, if it's Peter, he'll give me a stare,
Then —
" Have you done fair? "
I shall answer him square:
" I can't say " allers", Peter, ... I couldn't —
" Noabody dudn't —
" If they nobbut confessed;
" But — I've done my best.
" I've got noa money to boast about.
" And, as for praying, I never could shout;
" No ... No ... I ain't allers done fair,
" But — swelp me, Peter — I've allers tried. "
*****
What can he say, but — " Come inside " ?
Good morning, Joe!
I'm glad to see you by the window, so —
A nasty time you've had,
Bad!
Eh?
The doctor — " a good feller " ?
I daresay,
I've never been ill mysen, you see,
So ain't had nowt to do with he.
" I shall know about it if ever I'm ill " ?
Mebbe I will,
But ... Joe ...
About you, though —
I'm sure you're getting better now,
Your colour's back, and, anyhow,
You're looking fine:
It's a good sign:
What? — what!
Doan't say so!
Come — Joe —
Rubbish, man!
Doan't give up living while you can,
Sich nonsense talking about dying;
It's 'coz you've been so long a-lying,
Just 'coz you're weeak and low,
But ...that'll go;
The crops is looking splendid down the Fen,
The wheeat's in ear,
Harvest's near,
And very soon we'll have you out again.
II.
D'ye mean it, Joe?
" You've known it all along " ?
I hope you're wrong!
But ... if it's so —
I wouldn't have you deceive yoursen.
'Tis best to know —
You'll want me to fetch your parson, then?
No!
You must want parson to get you ready,
You've allers been to Church that steady —
Not what I call religious, though;
Often I've wanted to talk to you, Joe —
Serious like, but never got started,
That chicken-hearted!
You've gone to Church and prayed o' Sunday,
But never carried it over Monday —
Church foak dudn't —
I know!
That's not religion, though;
Religion lives wi' you,
In bed at night,
By dark or light,
Never from sight,
Allers there,
Everywhere;
The sureness of Hell —
For there is a Hell —
That awful fire down below,
Where all what isn't saved must go,
You too — poor Joe!
Unless you're saved.
But ... you know —
You can be saved,
Salvation's free
For everyone, for you, for me;
You've only got to say the word,
It'll be heard; it'll be heard;
And now — let's say a prayer together.
No?
When Death is staring in your face!
Surely you'll wake and seek for grace,
Surely, then ... Joe!
III
Wait a bit, Jim, and lissen, now, to me,
I doan't want to be " saved " — as you would say —
Not if 'tis arned your chapel-going way;
It's nowt to judge you by, as I can see;
Look at our precious neighbour, Tommy Stower,
One of your saints, a reg'lar chapel-goer;
Preaches about and goes to all your " do's " ,
Looked on as most religious in his views,
A pious man!
Held up to answer, " Can religion pay? "
A-course it can!
Hasn't it paid your Tommy Stower well?
But — Jim —
Would you take his word when he's anything to sell?
About a horse? ...
He keeps within the law for fear of worse,
Knowing exactly just how far to go;
His word it isn't worth a tinker's curse!
Why — Jim —
Noabody ever dreams of trusting him,
And — being so —
Ain't he the very worst man as you know?
Nay, lad, you couldn't doubt
As he's the blackest rascal hereabout,
Look how he leads astray his weaker neighbours,
What sees him prosper by his wicked labours;
They foller on to do what he has done,
Him what has risen from a poor man's son,
Thinking how fine are his religious ways
What gets him straight to heaven — yet allers pays —
Though — mind you, Jim,
There's plenty goes to chapel besides him
What's just as straight and square as they can go —
Chaps like yoursen,
The fairest men;
That's not what I was meaning, though,
For both sorts goes and prays together.
Birds of a very different feather,
Some of 'em hypocrites, and more —
Isn't he one, your pious Stower?
Isn't he one?
Look at the wicked things as he has done!
And — Jim —
He's stronger — far — than we,
He spreads hissen just like the " green bay tree " .
Parson once said:
" The evil what men does lives after 'em,
" The good is moastly buried wi' their bones. "
That's true, you know!
And — being so —
Your Stower —
Your pious chapel-goer —
He'll carry on when you and me lies flat;
Mind that!
IV
What do I believe then?
I'll tell you, Jim.
I believe in doing fair to all men,
Even to Tommy Stower,
Even to him.
It's been hard:
He's a bad card!
But I tried to mind as he didn't cheat me,
Yes, I took good care;
I didn't want rascals like him to beat me,
Soa I treated him fair;
What I ask of others is just the same,
" Do to others as you'll be done to, "
That's about all as life'll run to.
That's my religion, Jim,
That's my game.
You can't ask more on this rum owd earth,
What's full of kinks and knotty places,
And hypocrites wi' smiling faces —
Wrong uns from birth.
It's not a perfect world,
It's not a righteous world,
Yet it's not a bad world;
If a man does fair you can't ask for more;
As I said afore,
It matters nowt where he goas to pray —
Whether chapel or church —
Wherever he perch,
Or whatever he say —
That's nowt to do wi' his inner man.
It's niver noa guide to his inner plan.
You've got to judge a tree by its fruit.
Not by the garden where it has root,
And so you must judge a man by his life —
How he sarves his friends —
How he gains his ends —
How he treats his wife;
If he passes that test he's good enough —
Not far astray —
But
Otherway —
He's wrong!
Noa matter where he may belong —
He's wrong!
V
I've gone to Church like feyther did:
When I was but a little kid
I set wi' him agen the door,
My feet could hardly touch the floor,
And everything was strange to me;
But through the porch I loved to see
The birds what chirped and flew about.
To see the flowers peeping out,
Or listen to the humming bees,
Or watch the clouds across the trees;
And, later, I was glad to go:
'Twas reg'lar, and it pleased me so
To sit where feyther did, and hear
The selfsame things come year by year.
Not keep a-squinting at my soul
To see if it be " saved " or no,
Like something planted in a hole,
Raved up to find if it will grow,
'Coz that's what little childer does:
There's summat wrong wi' sich a buzz.
*****
Some niver thinks unless they're ill;
P'r'aps they're afraid to face their bill;
They reckon as a parson's prayer
Will somehow put 'em on the square,
Thinking they're like the dying thief —
It's only thieves wants such relief —
I'm sartin Tommy Stower will —
You'll see, if ever he be ill!
*****
Parson will come this afternoon —
'Tis on his round — he'll be here, soon,
And read to me the regular prayer,
One for the sick, all right and square.
Soa, come what may, I shall scramble along,
Noa patching me up at the very last breath,
Noa trying to get me ready for Death —
What's the good of that if your life's been wrong?
VI
I'm staring Death full in the face,
It's just about the end of my race;
I can't mend it,
I can only end it.
But — Jim —
Whatever's waiting for me yonder —
I often wonder —
Whether it's Peter or, mebbe, Paul,
Or p'r'aps there's noabody at all!
But, if it's Peter, he'll give me a stare,
Then —
" Have you done fair? "
I shall answer him square:
" I can't say " allers", Peter, ... I couldn't —
" Noabody dudn't —
" If they nobbut confessed;
" But — I've done my best.
" I've got noa money to boast about.
" And, as for praying, I never could shout;
" No ... No ... I ain't allers done fair,
" But — swelp me, Peter — I've allers tried. "
*****
What can he say, but — " Come inside " ?
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