"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 hunted 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 watch the captured beast, Hear why a penniless pauper Spits on your palfry 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 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,' The moon shone in at the window Set in a wreath of snow.