(With apologies to George R. Sims, author of the immortal 'Christmas Day in the Workhouse.')

There's a Christmas Gnome in the Workhouse, while the Paupers scoff their Pud,
It's their first square meal since Whitsun, so it's sure to do them good.
The providers of this bounty, Parish Guardians and their wives,
Feel self-righteous and important, as they cheer up Paupers' lives.
 

The Paupers' Christmas Pudding has been bought  from Parish rates,
And the Guardians feel right worthy, as they fill the Paupers' plates.
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.'

A year ago that morning, his Nancy passed away,
She had starved to death at Christmas, on the stroke of Christmas Day.
They had begged for bread from the Parish, but their pleadings were denied.
And they would not enter the Workhouse; though poor they still had pride.

The Guardians gaze in horror, the Master's face goes white;
Has a pauper refused their Pudding? Can their ears believe aright?
Then the ladies clutch their husbands, thinking that the man will die,
Struck by a bolt of lightning, from the outraged One on high.

But something different happens, for the Christmas Gnome she goes
Up to the Workhouse Master, and stuffs Pudding up his nose.
'Sister Beryl of the Expletive,' the Gnome cries with a grin,
'My word, don't you look silly? With that Pudding down your chin!'

'You can send out for your Beadle, or the Peelers if you like,
But I tell you that these Paupers will be coming out on strike.
There'll be no more picking oakum, there'll be no more fusée chains,
The Christmas Gnome's persuasion makes these Paupers use their brains.'

The Guardians gaze in horror, the Master's face goes white:
For the Paupers are triumphant and they cheer with all their might.
Is this Gnome a Christmas Angel? Can the things she says be true?
'No Angel,' says Sister Beryl, 'And your fate is up to you.'

So there's much negotiation, 'twixt the Guardians and the Poor,
There'll be pay for the Paupers' labour, there'll be no locks on the door.
Health and Safety regulations will be drafted with all speed.
(The Paupers think their future's looking very bright indeed.)

But it's Christmas, so the Guardians and the Paupers celebrate
With extra Christmas Pudding and with beer by the crate.
And the moral of this story is that Christmas Cheer flows,
Not from Haughty Condescension but from Pudding up the Nose!

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