He staggered in from night and frost and fog br And lampless streets: he’d guzzled like a hog br And drunk till he was dazed. And now he came br To hear—he couldn’t call to mind the name— br But he’d been given a ticket for the show, br And thought he’d (hiccup) chance his luck and go. br br The hall swam in his eyes, and soaring light br Was dazzling splendid after the dank night. br He sat and blinked, safe in his cushioned seat, br And licked his lips; he’d like a brandy, neat. br br ‘Who is the King of Glory?’ they were saying, br He pricked his ears; what was it? Were they praying?... br By God, it might be Heaven! For singers stood br Ranked in pure white; and everyone seemed good; br And clergymen were sitting meekly round br With joyful faces, drinking in the sound; br And holy women, and plump whiskered men. br Could this be Heaven? And was he dead? And then br They all stood up; the mighty chorus broke br In storms of song above those blameless folk; br And ‘Hallelujah, Hallelujah!’ rang br The burden of the triumph that they sang. br br He gasped; it must be true; he’d got to Heaven br With all his sins that seventy times were seven; br And whispering ‘Hallelujah’ mid their shout, br He wondered when Lord God would turn him out.