Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

Merry Christmas to You, Jim

I have always insisted that there was nothing smart or clever in writing a rhyme or expressing one's thoughts in verse. Some people have referred to this action as a gift, but I have always regarded it as an affliction. Certain it is that when I get the itch to write in this manner I may as well submit to the urge at once as try to avoid the effort. Lines, lines, lines will come pouring into your head, and your fingers will begin itching to get hold of a pencil, while the devil or some of his imps will keep hissing in your ear, "That's a good line, and this, and this, and this." No mental effort is required, the only effort is physical, to get the stuff down on paper as it comes clicking into your head from the devil knows where. It is useless to try and change the line of thought by occupying your mind otherwise—while the stuff keeps pouring in, your brain will entertain nothing else. As far as mental effort or planning goes, I may say that stories and bits of verse credited to me were not written or composed by me at all--they were hissed into my head by the fairies or some other invisible agents.

Jim McLachlan spent Christmas of 1923 in prison, and I spent Christmas night of that year in a flop-house in another part of the country. Because accommodations were so poor, and perhaps because I had no supper, I could not sleep, and while I was in this uncomfortable position the fairies attacked me: "Merry Christmas to you, Jim; Merry Christmas to you, Jim; In your prison dungeon dim; In your prison dungeon dim," came pouring into my head as clearly as if someone was speaking in the room. I realized from past experience that I had to do my stuff, but I was handicapped. There was no electric or gas light in the room and only an old-fashioned lamp was available. I found a match and pencil, but did not have a scrap of paper. "Write it on the wall, write it on the wall," commanded the fairies, pausing in their dictation. That's what I did—wrote the following lines on the smooth board unpainted wall of the flop-house. The lines are probably there still, if the flop-house is:

Merry Christmas to you, Jim,
In your prison dungeon dim;
What although the bars are cold,
They have sheltered hearts of gold,
Fit companions they for you—
Steel is strong and steel is true.
Ah, better, yes with you to stand
Than humbly lick a tyrant's hand,
Like slaves and traitors to the cause
Who pawn their souls for men's applause;
The steel were truer friend than him—
Merry Christmas to you, Jim.

The meanest, vilest dungeon hole
Can never stain an honest soul,
And prison stripes can't dim your star,
It's not where you are, but what you are.
Persecute you all they can,
But, Jim McLachlan , you're a man,
And by the God whom I adore,
I'd rather pace a prison floor
And sleep in dungeons dark and cold
Than sell my soul for Besco's gold;
His masters must be proud of him—
Merry Christmas to you, Jim.

The mines are as they have ever been,
Kids are starving 'round Sixteen—
Ah, but blessed are the meek,
Blessed with two shifts a week.
Paper buncombe is the same,
But' now they don't know who to blame.
Before you went and broke the laws,
Jim McLachlan was the cause
Of all the sin, distress and crime
That might occur in modern time,
But now they can't blame it on him—
Merry Christmas to you, Jim.

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