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Twas Christmas Day in the Workhouse.


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It was Christmas Day in the workhouse

the snow was raining fast

a bare footed man with clogs on

came walking running past

he turned around a straight crooked corner

to see a dead donkey die

he pulled out his pistol to stab him

the donkey spat in his eye

next day he went to the theatre

he had a front seat at the back

he fell from the floor to the gallery

and broke a front bone in his back

a lady gave him an orange

he ate it and gave it her back

it was Christmas Day in the workhouse

and the snow was raining fast.

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I agree.


Happy days

My Dad who had been brought up in Padgate Cottage Homes learned in there and used to recite it to me when I was a little lad.

Here is the correct version:-




A dramatic monologue, published by George Robert Sims in 1879, as a criticism of the harsh conditions in workhouses under the nineteenth century Poor Law.






George R. Sims ( 1847 - 1922 )


It is Christmas Day in the workhouse, and the cold, bare walls are bright

With garlands of green and holly, and the place is a pleasant sight;

For with clean-washed hands and faces in a long and hungry line

The paupers sit at the table, for this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies, although the wind is east,

Have come in their furs and wrappers to watch their charges feast;

To smile and be condescending, putting on pauper plates.

To be hosts at the workhouse banquet, they've paid for with the rates.


0h, the paupers are meek and lowly with their 'Thank'ee kindly, mums'

So long as they fill their stomachs what matter it whence it comes?

But one of the old men mutters and pushes his plate aside,

"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me; for this is the day she died!"

The guardians gazed in horror, the master's face went white;

Did a pauper refuse their pudding? Could that their ears believe right?


Then the ladies clutched their husbands, thinking the man would die,

Struck by a bolt, or something, by the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment, then rose 'mid silence grim,

For the others had ceased to chatter and trembled in every limb:


He looked at the guardians' ladies, then, eyeing their lords, he said;

"I eat not the food of villains, whose hands are foul and red;"

"Whose victims cry for vengeance from their dark, unhallowed graves."

"He's drunk," said the workhouse master, "or else he's mad and raves."

"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "but only a haunted beast,

Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, declines the vulture's feast."


"I care not a curse for the guardians, and I won't be dragged away;

Just let me have the fit out, it's only on Christmas Day...

That the black past comes to goad me and prey on my burning brain;

I'll tell you the rest in a whisper, I swear I won't shout again.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end.


You come here to see how paupers, the season of Christmas spend;

You come here to watch us feeding, as they watched the captured beast;

Here's why a penniless pauper, spits on your paltry feast."

"Do you think I will take your bounty and let you smile and think

You're doing a noble action with the parish's meat and drink?


Where is my wife, you traitors, the poor old wife you slew?

Yes, by the God above me, my Nance was killed by you."

"Last Winter my wife lay dying, starved in a filthy den.

I had never been to the parish, I came to the parish then;

I swallowed my pride in coming! for ere the ruin came

I held up my head as a trader, and I bore a spotless name.


"I came to the parish craving, bread for a starving wife

Bread for the woman who'd loved me thro' fifty years of life;

And what do you think they told me, mocking my awful grief,

That the house was open to us, but they wouldn't give out relief."

"I slunk to the filthy alley, 'twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve

And the bakers' shops were open, tempting a man to thieve;

But I clenched my fists together, holding my head awry,

So I came to her empty-handed and mournfully told her why."


"Then I told her the house was open; she had heard of the ways of that

For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, and up in her rags she sat,

Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, we've never had one apart;

I think I can bear the hunger, the other would break my heart."


"All through that eve I watched her, holding her hand in mine,

Praying the Lord and weeping till my lips were salt as brine;

I asked her once if she hungered, and she answered 'No.'

The moon shone in at the window, set in a wreath of snow."


"Then the room was bathed in glory, and I saw in my darling's eyes

The faraway look of wonder, that comes when the spirit flies;

And her lips were parched and parted, and her reason came and went.

For she raved of our home in Devon, where our happiest years were spent."

"And the accents, long forgotten, came back to the tongue once more.

For she talked like the country lassie I wooed by the Devon shore;


Then she rose to her feet and trembled, and fell on the rags and moaned,

And, 'Give me a crust, I'm famished... for the love of God,' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman and flew to the workhouse gate,

Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!' and the answer came, 'Too late!'

They drove me away with curses; then I fought with a dog in the street

And tore from the mongrel's clutches a crust he was trying to eat."

"Back through the filthy by-ways... back through the trampled slush!

Up to the crazy garret, wrapped in an awful hush;


My heart sank down at the threshold, and I paused with a sudden thrill.

For there, in the silv'ry moonlight, my Nance lay cold and still."

"Up to the blackened ceiling, the sunken eyes were cast

I knew on those lips, all bloodless, my name had been the last;

She called for her absent husband... Oh God! Had I known--

Had called in vain, and, in anguish, had died in that den alone."


"Yes, there in a land of plenty, lay a loving woman dead.

Cruelly starved and murdered for a loaf of the parish bread;


At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life,

You, who would feed us paupers, what of my murdered wife?"


"There, get ye gone to your dinners, don't mind me in the least,

Think of the happy paupers eating your Christmas feast

And when you recount their blessings in your parochial way,

Say what you did for me too... only last Christmas Day."

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Thanks Algy, I just read them and I'm still laughing :lol::lol:

Your welcome Dizz, pity I can't show them on here but although not vile some people may find them offensive and apart from our hardened members we must consider our guests, If anyone would like to read them I am more than happy to send them with a PM just let me know on here or PM me, if it is the latter be patient as I very often forget to check my WW mail. :D

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