Christmas Day In The Workhouse
Composer(s): George R. Sims
Performer(s): John Moffatt



It is Christmas Day in the workhouse
And the cold, bare walls are bright 
With garlands of green and holly
Ad 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

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 
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' 
T'he 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 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 byways! 
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 
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 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 smug parochial way 
Say what you did for me, too
Only last Christmas Day"