In the Workhouse

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 pudding on pauper plates,

To be hosts at the workhouse banquet

They’ve paid for — with the rates.