The Wonderfully Weird Victorian Easter

A Light Ballad of Curious Traditions

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- Before the sun on Easter morn, when bells were faint and shy,

the dew lay neatly on the grass (as dew is wont to lie);

the maidens crept through silver fields with purpose, hope, and care,

to wash their cheeks in holy damp and mend their prospects fair.

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"For beauty lasts a twelvemonth," said the eldest, "if you’re quick,

and freckles flee a modest girl who masters the old trick."

So off they went on slippered feet through meadows faintly pearled,

and caught their colds with perfect grace—to suit a proper world.

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Then down the lane came painted folk with ribbons, bells, and flair,

a Dragon, George, a Fool, a Doc—and none entirely rare;

they fought beside the cobbled well with noise and zeal and pride,

then paused politely mid-demise and let the meal decide.

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The Dragon fell with tragic grace (and quite a decent groan),

the Doctor raised him up again—a trick he’d clearly honed;

“An egg! A coin! A bun!” they cried, with bows both bold and strange,

and housewives paid for rising dead—a truly fair exchange.

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Meanwhile upon the hillside green, the eggs were lined with pride,

in pinks and blues and hopeful hues that springtime might provide;

“Now roll!” cried Master Pembroke stern, as if commanding fleets,

and down they went like waxen moons escaping Sunday seats.

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Some cracked at once with honest flaws, some travelled far and fast,

while boys with eggs of secret strength held quietly to last;

for children, sweet and mild in books and every moral text,

were often skilled at subtle fraud—and sorry for it next.

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At church the ladies swept along in gowns of newest hue,

with bonnets shaped like flower beds (and sometimes gardens too);

for one must wear a thing unused on Easter morn, ’tis said,

or else misfortune follows you—though rarely well-bred.

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And high within the kitchen beams, a bun with cross hung tight,

to guard the house from wicked things and sudden fires at night;

it gathered dust with quiet pride, as buns are bound to do,

and proved that faith, when baked in dough, keeps very nicely too.

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And when the bells grew tired of song and dusk slipped through the square,

the Dragon limped off with a bow, St. George repaired his hair;

the dew had cured no freckles yet, but all declared it clear—

that Easter worked in curious ways, at least once every year.