The Poor Jackdaw -- an absolute fact in 1887-8 -- a poem by Stephen Poyntz Brooksbank
A bird I had once, of most high degree,
His colour was black, as black could be,
He was no more, than a common Jackdaw,
He hadn't a tail and was game in once claw,
He'd far more sense in his shiny black pate,
Than I've found in most, that I've seen of late.
He'd a peculiar gait and a walk of his own,
Which you couldn't mistake, when he wanted his grub,
His bath in the morning, in his own special tub.
When the weather was cold, be it frost, be it snow,
He wouldn't come in, not a bit of it, no,
But he'd sit on a brick, or any like thing,
Perched up on one leg, with his head in his wing.
But to cut it all short, and sum up in a word,
He was, without doubt, a remarkable bird.
One night it was hot, and he hadn't been seen,
And nobody knew where he was, or had been,
Since his morning bath, which he never forgot,
But that wasn't the thing, where the deuce had he got?
Neither high nor low, he couldn't be found,
So we off to bed ad locked up all round.
Sweet slumbers soon my eyelids closed,
Earth vanished from my sight,
In happy dreams my soul reposed,
All wrapped in dusky night,
What grandest ease and rest we find,
In death's half-brother, sleep.
As slowly o'er our troubled minds,
It's subtle power doth creep.
But I hadn't been long in this blissful state,
When I had to dress at a terrible rate,
With such pains behind, below and before,
That I must confess, I'm afraid, I swore,
Like a peer of the realm, remembering that I
Had supped rather largely, off cold rabbit pie.
But there was no doubt, it had to be done,
So I up I got as the clock struck one,
And down the garden to that verdant bower,
That's open to all at every hour.
I took a seat as a matter of course,
When a stab from below, I received with much force,
The part of my body then injured was there,
Just below, you know, that you put in chair.
The shock to my system I then received,
Without experience would not be believed.
Some minutes elapsed before I had power,
To investigate what had been hid in that bower.
At last, with courage, I approached the door,
And the greeting received was a piteous caw
As much as to say, 'oh help us I pray,
Come give us a hand, and put us on land'
That sorrowful caw dispelled all my fear,
And I had no compunction in then drawing near,
With a helping hand, I set him all right,
And rescued poor Jack from his terrible plight.
With a hop and a stride and three or four caws,
He shook out his feathers, scratched his beak with his claws,
I wished him goodbye and retired for the night,
And never awakened until it was light.
Next morning I found him all serene,
None would have thought, that he'd ever been,
Well, we won't mention where,
But we'll say it was there.
It was twelve months after, I'm sorry to say,
That poor old Jack, on that very same day,
In his own special tub, by chance he was found,
Stiff, wet and cold, for there he was drowned.
I placed his body down to rest,
Beneath the cold, cold ground,
Underneath a lilac tree,
His tablet will be found,
Where many times the golden sun
Has shone on his bright head,
That pretty place is only now,
The last home of the dead.
I missed him then, I miss him now,
He gained my heart and love,
Perhaps it may, perhaps not be,
That we shall meet above,
I never see the things he used,
But tear drops fill my eyes,
So great the love for that lost friend,
His memory never dies.
Since I started this website I have had some fantastic input from people who know much more about family history than I do, notably my friend Rosie Novis, who has unearthed some incredible stories. One in particular about my great grandfather William George Tydeman who committed suicide in a most alarming and gruesome way. Aged 39, he was a boot salesman employed by a Mr Franklin, boot and shoe manufacturer in Herne Hill. His wife Harriet described how he had not felt well that day in 1903 and did not go to work. After she went out the landlady of the house heard him make a peculiar noise. When Harriet returned home she found him lying on the floor in the back room with his throat cut in a shocking manner. She raised his head but he never spoke. The police and a medical man were sent for. The landlady, Bertha Goodman said that William had called out her name but she could hardly recognise his voice because he made a terrible noise. When the coroner asked what she meant, she said he sounded like cats fighting. A small knife was found on the floor and he had cut his throat three times but obviously not enough to finish the job. His employer Mr Franklin told the inquest that William had been a very reliable employee but had been acting strangely for the past three weeks - absent-minded and distracted. It seems he was particularly upset about one of his children who was ill in hospital. The inquest heard that William had four or five wounds to the throat, one about 5 inches long and all the main arteries were severed but he was alive for an hour and a half after his wife got home. It must have been an agonising death and the details are so graphic, the story really sticks in your mind. My Uncle George said there was always a big family secret about what actually happened to him.