The Chimney Sweep
Victorian life was bad enough for young children but for those entrusted to orphanages or workhouses there was a very slim chance of survival, this story tells of a young boy in those days, My new book A Poetic Trip Along Memory Lane is now available on Amazon books, If you liked the fifties and 60’s you’ll like this. I am a great fan of stories in Rhyme, I have created quite a lot which I – hopefully will share with you in the future, only problem is that they are long.
I was six years old, going on sevenWhen Jesus called the old man to heaven.Least, that’s what I think – he may have gone downHe’d feel at home wearing the Devils crown. Me mam had run off six years beforeLast thing we heard was her slamming the door,Left six hungry kids – including meselfNo food in the parlour, no bread on the shelf. The old man tried to keep us togetherWent lighting gas lamps, out in all weather,That winter was bad and he caught the fluHis last words to me were ‘You know what to do’. We didn’t cope long, we just couldn’t surviveSo we went to the workhouse to stay alive,But the beadle was bad, an evil manTook advantage of my big sister Fran. I discovered Fran sat softly weepingSaid I’d slit his throat while he was sleeping,The beagle decided that I had to goKnew I’d keep my promise if I should grow. So, now I’m leaving to earn my keepThe workhouse sold me to a chimney sweep,A wretched geezer known all over townFor his grumpiness and his constant frown. The fat old man – as I’ll call him hereinWore most of his last meal on unshaven chin,His crumpled top hat and stained waistcoatShowed up the red neckerchief around his throat. His corduroy trousers were tied at the kneesWith pieces of old string, if you please,Above well-worn boots, although looking strongCausing white sparks as he shuffled along. His face was lined with the grime of yearsAnd long silvery hairs grew from his ears,His nose was quite bent and sat to one sideThe smile on his thin lips had long since died. At seven years old and as thin as a rakeI was willing to get anything I could take,But the thought of those chimneys so dark and dankFilled me with dread and my heart it sank. Well, it was either that or become a thiefAnd no matter what – I was not a tealeaf,So the fat old man complete with his frownSlapped me hard as he dragged me through town. For an overweight man he walked at a paceIt seemed as though he was in a race,I toted his rods and black sooty brushesAs through crowded streets he grunts and rushes. The noise was terrific, men were shoutingYoung boys were fighting, women were touting,Their wares from baskets as others greetAmong infestation upon the street. Thin donkeys tugging at overladen cartsThe pieman selling his pastries and tarts,The clatter of hooves on hard cobbled floorsHalf naked women at open front doors. That place was quite bad, but then he turned rightInto a dark street where we lost daylight,The buildings so close, as if to be pallyA sign up above read ‘Blind mans Alley’. The darkened alley had never seen sunThe stench emitting was second to none,Then the fat old man stopped dead on his feetAs the contents of a chamberpot met the street. His filthy black fist he shook in the airBut the hag that had thrown it hadn’t a care,And so we continued through that dingy hueTill suddenly daylight, the sun shining through. The town was now gone, the noisiness diedAs we walked at a pace through the countryside,Two lions on post and there- in betweenA house of grandeur such as I’d never seen. A cold looking house but two storeys highWith ugly chimneys which reached to the sky,A panelled front door, its paint freely peelingWas opened by a woman, cold and unfeeling. We were ushered into a stately roomQuite light and airy, yet so full of gloom,The unpolished table had seen better daysWith dust swirling madly through the sun's rays. The fat old man wrenched the rods from my shoulderAs he pushed them together my blood ran colder,He shoved me toward the black chimney throatInto that cavity – dark and remote. With brush in hand, I started to climbUp through the caked soot wet with slime,My knees were bleeding as I tried to gripSkinned my knuckles as I tried not to slip. When I got higher the space became tightBut thankfully above me, I saw daylight,I gave one last push, my body was crammedI started to panic as I became jammed! I could hear muffled voices, way down belowMy mind was drifting from lack of air flow,My breathing was harder, I tried to moveBut my disposition didn’t much improve. My head was spinning as loose soot fell downSo much so, that I feared I would drown,Then a warmth from below as if to berateA fire had been lit, below in the grate! The smoke stole the last breath that I hadAnd there in the gloom, I could see my old dad,Coming toward me – offering his handAs he took me from hell to the promised land. Eric Harvey 15/10/2020.