A Very Merry Christmas And A Happy New Year To You All!

Discussion in 'Front Page Articles' started by El Toro, Dec 24, 2016.

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  1. My condolences to you and your wife. There is never a good time but Christmas Day will always be a day with even more special significance from now on. I'm sure you will celebrate her life each Christmas from now on too.

    Our New Year's Eve has special significance as my wife's father died that day 30 years ago.
     
  2. Thank you all for your comments and my thoughts go out to the countless others who have had to or will have to face up to this disease at some point in their lives.

    Sent from my SM-G935F using Tapatalk
     
  3. Merry Christmas all:smile:
    I hope in 2017 I can join the Ducati owners club ....if I can find a reasonable 998S.
     
  4. Hope all have a good, or better New Year, especially anyone under adversity.
     
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  5. Christmas Day in the Workhouse
    by George Sims

    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 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."
     
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  6. It's not Christmas anymore...can you close this thread and remove it from the front page please.
     
  7. Just leave it open. It's saves the hassle of opening another one in 51 weeks time.
     
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  8. Not very long now
     
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  9. I know, I can't wait. :)
     
  10. [​IMG]
     
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  11. Just get those bloody summer holls out of the way and that's about it .
     
    #31 2 easy, Jan 12, 2017
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 12, 2017
  12. Thread closed and unfeatured :)
     
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