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'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped. 'You dare come on parade like this?' 'Please, sir, it's -' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped. 'I takes 'is name, sir?' - 'Please, and then dismiss.' Some days 'confined to camp' he got, For being 'dirty on parade'. He told me, afterwards, the damned spot Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said. 'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away Far off to where his wound had bled And almost merged for ever into clay. 'The world is washing out its stains,' he said. 'It doesn't like our cheeks so red: Young blood's its great objection. But when we're duly white-washed, being dead, The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'
Authorship
- by Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918), "Inspection", from Poems, first published 1931 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by John E. Cousins , "Inspection", 1971 [baritone, flute, double piccolo, clarinet, bass clarinet, trombone, piano, and 3 percussion], from Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori [ sung text not verified ]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Inspection", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Text added to the website: 2008-10-18 00:00:00
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:02:58
Line count: 16
Word count: 120
« Vous ! Qu'est-ce que cela veut dire ? » Je dis brusquement. « Vous osez venir à la parade comme ça ? » « S'il vous plaît, Monsieur, c'est -- » « Fermez-la » rembarra le sergent. « Je prends son nom, Monsieur ? » -- « S'il vous plaît et rompez. » Quelques jours « confiné au camp », il eut, Pour avoir été « sale à la parade ». Il me dit, plus tard, que la fichue tache Était du sang, le sien. « Eh bien, le sang est sale, » dis-je. « Le sang est sale, » il rit, regardant au loin Là où sa blessure avait saigné Et s'était mêlée presque pour toujours à la glaise. « Le monde est en train de laver ses taches, » dit-il. « Il n'aime pas nos joues si rouges : Le jeune sang est sa grande objection. Mais quand nous serons dûment blanchis, étant morts, La course supportera l'inspection du maréchal Dieu. »
Authorship
- Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2017 by Guy Laffaille, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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- a text in English by Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918), "Inspection", from Poems, first published 1931
Text added to the website: 2017-11-09 00:00:00
Last modified: 2017-11-09 04:23:31
Line count: 16
Word count: 163