Extracts from Long Gone Are The Days
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Dark dolls, fair dolls, with pretty china faces,
Model horses, rocking horses, hobby horses for our races.
Golliwogs, Teddy bears, Humming tops a-spinning,
Party masks painted sad, some gaily painted grinning.
Punch and Judy, Beelzebub and puppets hung on string,
Giants, trolls, Elfin knights and fairies in a ring.
Wooden forts and castles with soldiers made of lead,
Smartly paraded in a line with tunics of the brightest red.
Boats, trains, bats, balls and shiny perambulators,
Mechanical toys from Germany such as clockwork alligators.
Wind-up mice, for girls not nice, but for boys, such great fun,
And little men who walk down slopes or can be made to run.
Readings for a lantern show with slides of Peter Pan
And a ball on string with a wooden cup for to catch it if you can.
Magic tricks, silly jokes, pop-up books so neat,
Skipping ropes and hoops of iron for playing in the street.
Grimaldi clowns that somersault, either fast or slow,
Harlequins and columbines ready for a show
In the a model theatre also on display-
As cut-outs glued to rods of wood is how they act their play.
Telescope, Microscope, Kaleidoscope are there,
Shadowgraph, pantograph and a jig doll dancing bear.
And there is Jack upon a spring in a box of painted tin -
Release the catch upon the lid and you will never keep him in.
Diabolos, whipping tops, houses for a doll,
Five stones Tarot cards, glass marbles for to roll,
Pairs of skates for frozen ponds, toboggans which slide so fast,
Mittens and mufflers to wrap up warm now winter’s come at last.
Fine tuned whistles they abound, as do big loud drums:
All small boys wish for one of those when Father Christmas comes.



Uncle Bertie, the family magician,
Was a sizeable part of our Christmas tradition.
With a swish of his cloak, a magic word;
Silence, then a cooing heard
As from his hat he conjured a dove
To remind us that Christmas was a time of love.
Then a puff of smoke, a flash of light,
The dove is now a rabbit white.
Into the hat by the ears
The rabbit goes, then disappears.
“Uncle, how’s it done?” we yell,
“Tell to us your Magic spell”.
“Maybe next year” we are always told
As now from his hat his hand takes hold
Of silk ‘kerchiefs, first one, then two,
Changing colour from red to blue,
Orange, violet and indigo
Are the colours next on show,
Then canary yellow, then the brightest green
And before our very eyes-Surprise-a rainbow can be seen
As slowly it drifts down to the floor,
Disappears and is seen no more.
A volunteer is now needed quick
To assist with Uncle’s next magic trick.
With upraised arms for him to see
And loud shouts and screams of “Me, me, me”
We all surge forward, now very persistent
For we all want to be a magicians assistant.
A girl is chosen, we boys complain,
Every year it’s just the same.
“Hush your noise” we are told
But there’s always one who’s far too bold.
“Its not fair” he will shout
And for his trouble receives a clout
Behind the ear
Given not with Christmas cheer
From an Aunt or Uncle within easy reach
Always ready for a boy to teach
the Golden Rule, word for word -
Children should be seen but never heard.
Uncle Bertie now begins to clean
The sharpened blade of a guillotine
As he explains to his volunteer
There’s nothing at all for her to fear.
With her head now firmly upon the block
“Go wrong?” muses Uncle, “What poppycock”.
The glinting blade is pulled up high,
The volunteer begins to cry.
Girls are silly and very weak,
There’s always one who has to shriek
As the blade comes swishing down
While Uncle’s grinning like a clown.
The blade has, it would seem,
Slice through her neck, quick and clean,
But she moves her head from left to right
Without a drop of blood in sight.
A girl will faint, which then results
In using Grandma’s smelling salts.
The show is over, Uncle takes a bow,
Leaving us to wonder how
His magic tricks were done so well
And if next year he would really tell
To us his Magic spell.


Across to Borley Wood, past frozen pond and idle brook
Onward, past the snow wrapped orchard
Where there in late summer the trees we shook
To scrump and gorge the ripened fruit at will,
Sometimes so much to make us ill.
Memories of laughter at good natured fun
Cocooned in lazy days of hazy summer’s sun.
Stark contrast now the icy cold,
Barren trees grasped in winters hold,
A frozen fist gripping tight
In the pale December light,
All around, carpeting the cold hard ground
Is whiteness seen,
Except for the faithful evergreen
Which we have come to snip, cut,
Take away
To brighten our homes on Christmas Day
“Deck the halls” Carter will say
While we follow as he leads the way
Deep into the silent wood
Where in its middle is proudly stood
Majestically bold, serene,
The biggest holly we have ever seen
With berries red so ripe in show
Like drops of blood upon the snow
Which has, with each flurried shower
Tickled gently each prickled bough.
A rabbit hops across the track
As old Carter proceeds to hack
With a seemingly demented ferocity
At the base of the Greenwood tree.
Shouts of “Carter, I want a go”
And “Come on Carter, you’re far to slow”
Pierce the once delightful tranquil scene
Known alone to the evergreen
Which seems to creak, groan, cry out in pain
as Carter wields his axe again.
Again, again and yet again
Until, with one final blow
Trunk is severed and tree meets snow
With a crash as our laughter shrill
Poorly substitutes a death bell’s muffled knell.
With ropes now firmly tied we drag the giant slain
Back through the wood , across the heath to the waiting wain,
But I stop and, looking back, I’m saddened with what I see,
A robin red, laying dead where the evergreen used to be.
“Come on, catch up, there’s more work to do you know
Here lad, take this knife and fetch some mistletoe.
Over in the orchard, I’m sure you know the way
From your scrumping trips me lad on a summer’s day”
Head bowed low, I’m thinking hard. How did Carter Know?
All thoughts now gone of the robin dead laying in the snow.
He must have seen me or someone blabbed those many months gone by.
But who would tell old Carter, who would be so sly?
Who came with me on those sunny days?
Why, it was Sexton’s daughter Nell
Yes, I remember now, oh so very well
That if I did not kiss her she said that she would tell
And get me into trouble and beaten with a rule
For going out a-scrumping when I should have been at school.
But fear of that couldn’t make me kiss her spotty face.
Anyway, Kissing girls was cissy and I’d be in disgrace
From my pals when they found out, which was sure to be the case,
For Kiss and Tell was spotty Nell, for all her air and grace.
Prim and proper
Prim and proper
Prim and proper Nell
For all her airs and graces
She loved to Kiss then tell,
Now cutting away the mistletoe from off old Adam’s tree
I say a prayer to little Jesus that Nell hasn’t spotted me.
To be caught with kissing bough in hand,
The chance she would not miss
Tradition would rule, be on her side, then her I’d have to kiss.
Back at the wain we gather like kings our gifts we bring
Holly, Ivy and Mistletoe are our seasonal offering.
In a ragged bedraggled procession, gaily carolling we wind our way
Strewn on the wain the evergreen where in summer there was hay.
Blessed, by the same sun now sinking
Despondently ending the day.

 


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