Poetry

I know a little bit about "Woodbine Willie" G.A Studdert Kennedy because I used to occasionally work in a building named after him and took an interest in the man to whom it was dedicated.
He was an Anglican priest and poet who in 1914 became the vicar of St. Pauls, Worcester, which is where I encountered him.

He was nicknamed 'Woodbine Willie' during World War I for giving out Woodbine cigarettes whist ministering to injured and dying soldiers on the Western Front.

Here is one of his most moving poems written partially in dialect, but to me it sums up why British troops must now be withdrawn from illegal NATO wars in Afghanistan and elsewhere more than any political argument could.

It also gives a hint of why they must return home and what their job should then be when they are finally back where they belong and not on Obama's fools errand!

OLD ENGLAND

by G.A. Studdert Kennedy - otherwise known a "Woodbine Willie"
from his collection 'The Unutterable Beauty', First World War poems

Yes, I'm fightin' for old England
And for eighteenpence a day,

And I'm fightin' like an 'ero,
So the daily papers say.

Well, I ain't no downy chicken,
I'm a bloke past forty-three,

And I'm goin' to tell ye honest
What old England means to me.

When I joined the British Army
I'd bin workin' thirty years,

But I left my bloomin' rent-book
Showin' three months in arrears.

No, I weren't no chronic boozer,
Nor I weren't a lad to bet;

I worked 'ard when I could get it,
And I weren't afeared to sweat.

But I weren't a tradesman proper,
And the work were oft to seek,

So the most I could addle
Were abaht a quid a week.

And when me and Jane got married,
And we 'ad our oldest kid,

We soon learned 'ow many shillings
Go to make a golden quid.

For we 'ad to keep our clubs up,
And there's three and six for rent,

And with food and boots and clothing
It no sooner came than went.

Then when kiddies kep' on comin'-
We reared four and buried three;

My ole woman couldn't do it,
So we got in debt - ye see.

And we 'ad a 'eap o' sickness
And we got struck off the club,

With our little lot o' troubles
We just couldn't pay the sub.

No, I won't tell you no false'oods;
There were times I felt that queer,

That I went and did the dirty,
And 'ad a drop o' beer.

Then the wife and me 'ud quarrel,
And our 'ome were little 'ell,

Wiv the 'ungry kiddies cryin',
Till I eased up for a spell.

There were times when it were better,
There were times when it were worse,

But to make it altogether,
My old England were a curse.

It were sleepin', sweatin', starvin',
Wearing boot soles for a job,

It were sucking up to foremen
What 'ud sell ye for a bob.

It were cringin', crawlin', whinin',
For the right to earn your bread,

It were schemin', pinchin', plannin',
It were wishin' ye was dead.

I'm not fightin' for old England,
Not for this child - am I? 'Ell!

For the sake o' that old England
I'd not face a single shell,

Not a single bloomin' whizzbang.
Never mind this blarsted show,

With your comrades fallin' round ye,
Lyin' bleedin' in a row.

This ain't war, it's ruddy murder,
It's a stinkin' slaughter 'ouse.

'Ark to that one, if 'e got ye
'E'd just squash ye like this louse.

Would I do this for old England,
Would I? 'Ell, I says, not me!

What I says is, sink old England,
To the bottom of the sea!

It's new England as I fights for,
It's an England swep' aht clean,

It's an England where we'll get at
Things our eyes 'ave never seen;

Decent wages, justice, mercy,
And a chance for ev'ry man

For to make 'is 'ome an 'eaven
If 'e does the best 'e can.

It's that better, cleaner England,
Made 'o better, cleaner men,

It's that England as I fights for,
And I'm game to fight again.

It's the better land o' Blighty
That still shines afore our eyes,

That's the land a soldier fights for,
And for that a soldier dies.