'The Author of Little Jim'

 In Tamworth churchyard the other day, I noticed a rather imposing obelisk, and wondered who it commemorated. 'A talented man whose generous temperament found one of its favourite expressions in songs of patriotism and philanthropy,' said the inscription. He was, furthermore, 'The Author of "Little Jim"', and his name was Edward Farmer. (1809-1876). None the wiser, I dug around a little online and discovered that Farmer was the chief detective on the Midland Railway, who, when not fighting railway crime, wrote verses, some of which he published, and one of which – 'Little Jim, or The Collier's Dying Child' – was a huge hit. It is a classic piece of sentimental 'parlour poetry', made for recitation, and guaranteed to wring the heartstrings. Here it is – 

The cottage was a thatched one,
The outside old and mean,
Yet everything within that cot
Was wondrous neat and clean.

The night was dark and stormy,
The wind was howling wild;
A patient mother sat beside
The death-bed of her child.

A little worn-out creature –
whose once bright eyes were dim,
It was a collier’s only child,
They called him ‘Little Jim.’

And oh! to see the briny tears
Fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offered up a prayer, in thought –
She was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved
Far dearer than her life;
For she had all a mother’s heart,
Had that poor collier’s wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels
Beside the sufferer’s bed;
And prays that He will spare her child,
And take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the boy,
Soft fall the words from him –
‘Mother, the angels do so smile,
And beckon Little Jim.

‘I have no pain, dear mother, now,
But oh! I am so dry;
Just moisten poor Jim’s lips once more;
And, mother, don’t you cry.’

With gentle, trembling haste she holds
A teacup to his lips;
He smiles to thank her, then he takes
Three tiny little sips.

‘Tell father, when he comes from work,
I said ‘Good-night’ to him,
‘And, mother, now I’ll go to sleep.’
Alas, poor little Jim,

She sees that he is dying,
That the child she loves so dear
Has uttered the last words she
May ever hope to hear.

The cottage door is opened,
The collier’s step is heard;
The father and the mother meet,
Yet neither speak a word.

He feels that all is over,
He knows his child is dead;
He takes the candle in his hand,
And walks towards the bed.

His quivering lip gives token
Of the grief he’d fain conceal;
And, see, the mother joins him,
the stricken couple kneel.

With hearts bowed down in sorrow,
They humbly ask of Him
In Heaven, once more to meet again.
Their own poor ‘Little Jim.’

There were a great many poems on this theme in Victorian times, and it is easy to mock such work – indeed it was much mocked and parodied in its time (e.g. 'I have no pain now, mother dear, But Oh I am so dry; Connect me to a brewery, And leave me there to die.').  However, such harrowing but comforting verse surely gave real solace to parents living in a time when the death of a child, or of several children, was something that many, perhaps most, would have to endure and somehow make sense of, and survive. 'Little Jim' probably did more good work in the world than many far better poems.