In the Workhouse: Christmas Day by George R. Sims
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 tables 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, Put pudding on pauper
plates, To be hosts at the workhouse banquet They've paid for -- with
their rates.
Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"
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 the pudding?" Could their ears believe
aright? 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 a 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 dank, 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 hunted
beast, Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, Declines the vulture's
feast."
"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 watch the captured
beast. Hear 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's my wife, you traitors -- The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us, 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 Through 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 as 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 far-away 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 woo'd 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-lanes! 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'd
called for her absent husband - - O God! had I but 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
feast us paupers, What of my murdered
wife!
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