Classic Poem

It's Christmas Eve they tell me, but in the Workhouse ward
One day is like another an' both is mortal long.
What sort of grand rejoicings could the like of us afford,
That's poor old pauper women who could never raise a song?
Peace and good will the angels sing
To Christianable people.
You'll hear the merry bells ring out
From every Dublin steeple.

There's paper decorations to hang upon the wall,
And scrubbin' and conthrivin' — themselves is fearful clane.
They're lettin' on it's Christmas Eve, but troth! I'd quit it all
To walk the dirty world outside and see the street again.
Peace and good will the angels sing
To every living sinner.
(On Christmas Day the Guardians give
Plum pudding for our dinner).

The ould one that's beside me she coughs with every breath,
The one beyant, the villyain, her temper's fearful short;
But it's in this place we're gathered, an' like to be till death,
Amn't I praying every minyit to love them as I ought?
Peace and good will the angels sing,
And let you love your brother;
But angels in a Workhouse ward
Would maybe hate each other.

A tidy-living person I was when I was young,
As tidy-living person as ever walked in shoes.
But it's quare and bad ch'racters I've got to live among,
Wid some that's in it never had ch'racters they could lose.
Peace and good will the angels sing,
But here's a world of sorrow.
(Och, glory be! ourselves will dine
On rale roast beef to-morrow.)