Today we share a poem about a Victorian father's Christmas reflections on his children, both dead and alive.



I pass to my populous nursery,

I look round my circled hearth,

On this marvellous anniversary,

This time of the Wondrous Birth.







The first I see is Charlie,

An urchin just fourteen;

I know he smokes in private,

And never washes clean.

And there was a second Charlie,

Who might have shared his sins,

But died without a name on earth

(N.B. – We started with twins).

Arthur, the lazy rascal,

Though sharp as any nail,

Brought face to face with a school-book

Collapses like a snail.

Johnny, how well I remember

His handsome boyish face!

All I can see is the little cross

That marks his resting-place.

Then Bob, a ten-year spalpeen,*

Is dirty as a grub,

And such a veritable imp,

We call him Beelzebub.

Polly, my eldest daughter,

Has eyes as black as sloes;

But where in nature did she get

That impudent pug-nose?

Dora, the next “young lady”,

Is very prim and staid;

And weeps, though only six years old,

If we call her an old maid.

Freddy, four years, the “baby”,

Was getting rather a lout,

Till, a year ago, came Amy,

And his nose was clean put out.

Amy, asleep beside me,

Pouting, as if to be kissed,

Is the veriest darling among them,

And closes – at present – my list.

*rascal

The poem and the accompanying illustration come from one of my favourite books in the British Library collections - Love Lyrics and Valentine Verses for young and old by E M Davies. Fans of Victorian verse will be thrilled to learn that the book has been digitised to share its delights.

Margaret Makepeace

Lead Curator, East India Company Records