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This has become a tradition of mine for a few years now.:
Christmas Day in the Workhouse
Anon.
It was Christmas Day in the workhouse
The merriest day of the year
The paupers and the prisoners
Were all assembled there.
In came the Christmas pudding
When a voice that shattered glass
Said, “We don’t want your Christmas pudding
So stick it there with the rest of the unwanted presents.”
The workhouse master then arose
And prepared to carve the duck
He said “Who wants the parson’s nose
And the prisoners shouted “You have it yourself, sir.”
The vicar brought his Bible
And read out little bits.
Said one old crone at the back of the hall
“This man gets on very well with everybody.”
The workhouse mistress then began
To hand out Christmas parcels.
The paupers tore the wrappers off
And began to wipe their eyes, which were full of tears.
The master rose to make a speech
But just before he started
The mistress, who was fifteen stone,
Gave three loud cheers and nearly choked herself.
And all the paupers then began
To pull their Christmas crackers.
One pauper held his too low down
And blew off both his paper hat and the man’s next to him.
A steaming bowl of white bread sauce
Was handed round to some.
An aged gourmet then called aloud
“This bread sauce tastes like it was made by a continental chef.”
Mince pie with custard sauce was next
And each received a bit.
One pauper said “The mince pie’s nice
But the custard tastes like the bread sauce we had in the last verse!”
The mistress dishing out the food
Dropped custard down her front.
She cried “Aren’t I a silly girl!”
And they answered “You’re a
perfect picture as always ma’am !”
“This pudding “, said the master,
“Is solid, hard and thick.
How am I going to cut it?”
And a man cried, “Use your penknife sir, the one with the pearl handle.”
The mistress asked the vicar
To entertain his flock.
He said, “What would you like to see ?”
And they cried, “Let’s see your conjuring tricks, they’re always worth watching.”
“Your reverence, may I be excused ?”
Said one benign old chap.
“I don’t like any conjuring tricks.
I’d sooner have a carol or two around the fire”
So then they all began to sing
Which shook the workhouse walls.
“Merry Christmas!” cried the master,
And the inmates shouted “Best of luck to you as well sir!”
Bah! Humbug!
:-D :-D :-D :-D
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Anther version
Christmas Day in the Cookhouse
Billy Bennet (1930)
‘Twas Christmas Day in the cookhouse
And the place was clean and tidy,
The soldiers were eating their pancakes –
I’m a liar, that was Good Friday.
In the oven a turkey was sizzling
And to make it look posh, I suppose,
They fetched the battalion barber
To shingle its parson’s nose!
Potatoes were cooked in their jackets
And carrots in pants – how unique!
A sheep’s head was baked with the eyes in
As it had to see them through the week.
At one o’clock ‘Dinner Up’ sounded,
The sight made an old soldier blush –
They were dishing out Guinness for nothing
And fifteen got killed in the crush!
A jazz band played in the mess-room,
A fine lot of messers it’s true.
We told them to go and play Ludo
And they all answered ‘Fishcakes to you’!
In came the old Sergeant Major,
He’d walked all the way from the billet.
His toes were turned in, his chest was turned out,
With his head back in he’d spill it.
He wished all the troops ‘Merry Xmas’,
Including the poor Orderly Man;
Some said ‘Good Old Sergeant Major’,
But others said ‘Sweet Fairy Ann.’
Then up spoke one ancient warrior,
His whiskers a nest for the sparrows.
The old man had first joined the army
When the troops used to use bows and arrows.
His grey eyes were flashing with anger,
He threw down his pudden’ and cursed,
‘You dare to wish me a Happy New Year?
Well, just hear my story first.
‘Ten years ago as the crow flies,
I came here with my darling bride.
It was Christmas Day in the Waxworks,
So it must be the same outside.
We asked for some food, we were starving –
You gave us pease pudden’ and pork.
My poor wife went to the Infirmary
With a pain in her Belle of New York.
You’re the man that stopped bacon from shrinking
By making the cook fry with Lux
And you wound up the cuckoo clock backwards
And now it goes ‘oo’ ‘fore it ‘cucks’.
So thank you, and bless you and b— low you.
You just take these curses from me,
May your wife give you nothing for dinner
And then warm it up for your tea.
Whatever you eat, may it always repeat –
Be it soup, fish, entrées or horse doovers.
May blue bottles and flies descend from the skies
And use your bald head for manoeuvres.
May the patent expire on your evening dress shoes,
May your Marcel waves all come uncurled,
May your flannel shirt shrink up the back of your neck
And expose your deceit to the world.
And now that I’ve told you my story
I’ll walk to the clink by the gate.
And as for your old Xmas Pudden’,
Stick that – on the next fellow’s plate.’
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I guess that you changed a few words to defeat the RR'er? I can understand that.
I wonder how many versions there have been since I (and you!) were young? From memory the one that was around where I grew up started with a verse similar to your last verse:-
T'was Christmas day in the workhouse
T'wixt the dank and dusty walls
"Good morning" said the warder
A pauper answered b***s.
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Gosh I have never heard them before :-D :-D :-D
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I have and even ruder versions too :-D :-D :-D :-D.
Just the laugh I needed this morning :-D
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Nice one Allan cleaned up version me thinks ;-) have a Good Christmas don't have to much stuffing ( sage & onion to you ) Lol Barbara <3
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:-D :-D :-D :-D
Loved them Allan.
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Dear All
Hello
I am shocked and appalled. :-S :-D
No one should be on the vodka, a little self-discipline! :-) :-S :-D
Take gentle care all
Very best wishes
Elizabeth, EOS
xx
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