{"id":926,"date":"2012-12-25T10:36:26","date_gmt":"2012-12-25T10:36:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/xislblogs.xtreamlab.net\/slwoods\/?p=926"},"modified":"2012-12-25T10:50:38","modified_gmt":"2012-12-25T10:50:38","slug":"a-traditional-seasonal-monologue","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/?p=926","title":{"rendered":"A traditional seasonal monologue"},"content":{"rendered":"

In deference to the time of year, here’s a monologue – Christmas Day in the Workhouse – penned by George R. Sims<\/a> in 1879.<\/p>\n

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
\nAnd the cold bare walls are bright
\nWith garlands of green and holly,
\nAnd the place is a pleasant sight:
\nFor with clear-washed hands and faces
\nIn a long and hungry line
\nThe paupers sit at the tables,
\nFor this is the hour they dine.<\/p>\n

And the guardians and their ladies,
\nAlthough the wind is east,
\nHave come in their furs and wrappers,
\nTo watch their charges feast:
\nTo smile and be condescending,
\nPut puddings on pauper plates,
\nTo be hosts at the workhouse banquet
\nThey\u2019ve paid for \u2013 with the rates.<\/p>\n

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
\nWith their ‘Thank’ee kindly, mum’s’;
\nSo long as they fill their stomachs
\nWhat matters it whence it comes?
\nBut one of the old men mutters,
\nAnd pushes his plate aside:
\n‘Great God!’ he cries; ‘but it chokes me!
\nFor this is the day she died.’<\/p>\n

The guardians gazed in horror
\nThe master’s face went white;
\n‘Did a pauper refuse his pudding?’
\n‘Could their ears believe aright?’
\nThen the ladies clutched their husbands,
\nThinking the man might die
\nStruck by a bolt, or something,
\nBy the outraged One on high.<\/p>\n

But the pauper sat for a moment,
\nThen rose ‘mid a silence grim,
\nFor the others has ceased to chatter,
\nAnd trembled every limb.
\nHe looked at the guardian’s ladies,
\nThen. eyeing their lords, he said,
\n‘I eat not the food of villains
\nWhose hands are foul and red:<\/p>\n

‘Whose victims cry for vengeance
\nFrom their dank, unhallowed graves.’
\n‘He’s drunk!’ said the workhouse master.
\n‘Or else he’s mad, and raves.’
\n‘Not drunk or mad,’ cried the pauper,
\n‘But only a hunted beast,
\nWho, torn by the hounds and mangled,
\nDeclines the vulture’s feast.<\/p>\n

I care not a curse for the guardians,
\nAnd I won’t be dragged away.
\nJust let me have the fit out,
\nIt’s only Christmas Day
\nThat the black past comes to goad me,
\nAnd prey my burning brain;
\nI’ll tell you the rest in a whisper, –
\nI swear I won’t shout again.<\/p>\n

‘Keep your hands off me, curse you!
\nHear me right out to the end.
\nYou come here to see how the paupers
\nThe season of Christmas spend.
\nYou come here to watch us feeding,
\nAs they watch the captured beast.
\nHear why a penniless pauper
\nSpits on your paltry feast.<\/p>\n

‘Do you think I will take your bounty,
\nAnd let you smile and think
\nYou’re doing a noble action
\nWith the parish’s meat and drink?
\nWhere is my wife, you traitors –
\nThe poor old wife you slew?
\nYes, by the God above us
\nMy Nance was killed by you!<\/p>\n

‘Last winter my wife lay dying,
\nStarved in a filthy den;
\nI had never been to the parish, –
\nI came to the parish then.
\nI swallowed my pride in coming,
\nFor, ere the ruin came,
\nI held up my head as a trader,
\nAnd I bore a spotless name.<\/p>\n

‘I came to the parish, craving
\nBread for a starving wife,
\nBread for a woman who’d loved me
\nThrough fifty years of my life;
\nAnd what do you think they told me,
\nMocking my awful grief?
\nThat “the House” was open to us,
\nBut they wouldn’t give “out relief”.<\/p>\n

I slunk to the filthy alley –
\n‘Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve –
\nAnd the bakers’ shops were open
\nTempting a man to thieve;
\nBut I clenched my fists together
\nHolding my head awry,
\nSo I came home empty-handed,
\nAnd mournfully told her why.<\/p>\n

Then I told her “the House” was open;
\nShe had heard of the ways of that,
\nFor her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
\nAnd up in her rags she sat,
\nCrying, “Bide the Christmas here, John,
\nWe’ve never had one apart;
\nI think I can bear the hunger, –
\nThe other would break my heart.”<\/p>\n

‘All through that ever I watched her,
\nHolding her hand in mine,
\nPraying the Lord, and weeping
\nTill my lips were salt as brine.
\nI asked her once if she hungered
\nAnd as she answered “No,”
\nThe moon shone in at the window
\nSet in a wreath of snow.<\/p>\n

‘Then the room was bathed in glory,
\nAnd I saw in my darling’s eyes
\nThe far-away look of wonder
\nThat comes when the spirit flies;
\nAnd her lips were parched and parted,
\nAnd her reason came and went,
\nFor she raved of her home in Devon,
\nWhere her happiest days were spent.<\/p>\n

‘And the accents, long forgotten,
\nCame back to the tongue once more,
\nFor she talked like the country lassie
\nI woo’d by the Devon shore.
\nThen she rose to her feet and trembled,
\nAnd fell on the rags and moaned,
\nAnd, “Give me a crust – I’m famished –
\nFor the love of God!” she groaned.<\/p>\n

I rushed from the room like a madman,
\nAnd flew to the workhouse gate,
\nCrying “Food for a dying woman!”
\nAnd came the answer, “Too late.”
\nThey drove me away with curses;
\nThen I fought with a dog in the street,
\nAnd tore from the mongrel’s clutches
\nA crust he was trying to eat.<\/p>\n

‘Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
\nBack, through the trampled slush!
\nUp to the crazy garret,
\nWrapped in an awful hush.
\nMy heart sank down at the threshold,
\nAnd I paused with a sudden thrill,
\nFor there in the silv’ry moonlight
\nMy Nancy lay, cold and still.<\/p>\n

‘Up to the blackened ceiling
\nThe sunken eyes were cast –
\nI knew on those lips all bloodless
\nMy name had been the last;
\nShe’d called for her absent husband –
\nO God! had I but known! –
\nHad called in vain and in anguish
\nHad died in that den – alone.<\/p>\n

‘Yes, there in a land of plenty
\nLay a loving woman dead,
\nCruelly starved and murdered
\nFor a loaf of parish bread.
\nAt yonder gate, last Christmas
\nI craved for a human life.
\nYou, who would feast us paupers,
\nWhat of my murdered wife!<\/p>\n

‘There, get ye gone to your dinners;
\nDon’t mind me in the least;
\nThink of your happy paupers
\nEating your Christmas feast;
\nAnd when you recount their blessings
\nIn your smug parochial way,
\nSay what you did for me, too,
\nOnly last Christmas Day.’<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"image
St James’ Workhouse, London. Picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons<\/figcaption><\/figure>
\nHappy Christmas all.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In deference to the time of year, here’s a monologue – Christmas Day in the Workhouse – penned by George R. Sims in 1879. 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 clear-washed hands […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":20,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,15],"tags":[25,22,20],"class_list":["post-926","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-translation-and-language-related-matters","category-politics","tag-food","tag-language","tag-politics-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/926","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/20"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=926"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/926\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":934,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/926\/revisions\/934"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=926"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=926"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.slwoods.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=926"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}