Christmas Day in the Workhouse by George Sims

[no_hypocrisy]

http://www.victorianweb.org/history/poorlaw/poem.html

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,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for — with the 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.

-more-

[no_hypocrisy]

1. Another version (not by Sims)

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse
The one glad day of the year.
The paupers were gay and merry,
A fillin' their guts with beer.

In came the workhouse master
and through those stately halls,
He wished them a Merry Xmas
And the paupers answered "Balls"!

Up spake the workhouse master
"By the Gods you shan't have any pudding,
You saucy lot of sods"!

And all the paupers spoke
In tongues as bold as brass,
"You can keep your Christmas Pudding, Guvnor
And shove it up your ass"!!