I am in search of a piece of Rudyard Kiplings work. Many years ago there was a film called the Gathering starring Ed Asner about a man dieing of cancer and the family coming together over the holidays. In this movie the men recited a piece of Kiplings work during a toast. Can anyone help me place this piece of work

It wouldn't be "A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke!" would it"

Seriously, any words or topics to go by?

Paddy

"My muse is a jealous whore."

Any of these? [72.14.203.104]

Les

The title is "Christmas in the Workhouse".

Apparently, it's not by Kipling, even though Asner's character says so.
It was written by George R Sims in 1881.


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 the pudding on paupers 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 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 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 vultures 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 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 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 is my wife, you traitors-
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us
My Nance was killed by you!

Last winter as 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 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 baker's 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 on 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 days 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 mad-man
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?

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



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 10/29/2006 11:24AM by JohnnySansCulo.

I thought we were all supposed to have different log-in names. The original poster for this thread isn't me. When did I join here?

Linda, your namesake of so long ago had probably dropped out of Emule registration before you, like me, migrated here from the wreck of the Poetry Library forum.

At least Paddy's bump has brought us that link from Les and that classic piece of Victorian melodrama from Johnny. Nice catch! But I wonder whether this one really did feature in the recitation fare at Christmas festivities in those pre-TV, pre-radio days. Might have put people off their Christmas pud.

st stephen's day murders

(paddy moloneyelvis costello)

I knew of two sisters whose name it was christmas,
And one was named dawn of course, the other one was named eve.
I wonder if they grew up hating the season,
Of the good will that lasts til the feast of st. stephen

For that is the time to eat, drink, and be merry,
'til the beer is all spilled and the whiskey has flowed.
And the whole family tree you neglected to bury,
Are feeding their faces until they explode.

Chorus:

There'll be laughter and tears over tia marias,
Mixed up with that drink made from girders.
cause it's all we've got left as they draw their last breath,
And it's nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them,
In the st stephen's day murders.

Uncle is garglin' a heart-breaking air,
While the babe in his arms pulls out all that remains of his hair.
And we're not drunk enough yet to dare criticize,
The great big kipper tie he's about to baptize.

His gin-flavoured whiskers and kisses of sherry,
His best crimble shirt slung out over the shop.
While the lights from the christmas tree blow up the telly,
His face closes in like an old cold pork chop.


And the carcass of the beast left over from the feast,
May still be found haunting the kitchen.
And there's life in it yet, we may live to regret,
When the ones that we poisoned stop twitchin'.