The end of term has arrived. Hallelujah! We’ve had the final assemblies for each year group, and “The 12 Days of Christmas” is ringing in my ears like a bad case of tinnitus. As each verse passes the children sing more and more enthusiastically until the final crescendo where the last line is shouted out at the top of their voices. Mrs J, the new singing teacher, now wears a scowl of regret. When the pupils finally depart for the holiday, the corridors become eerily quiet.
Traditionally, the 12 Days of Christmas start on 25 December and last until the evening of 5 January, the Twelfth Night. The cumulative song means each verse builds on top of the previous. As the verses accumulate, so do the gifts. My form class calculated that by the end of the 12 days the true love would have 12 partridges, 12 pear trees, 12 drummers, 22 doves, 22 pipers, 30 French hens, 30 lords, 36 ladies, 36 calling birds, 40 gold rings, 40 maids alongside 40 cows, 42 geese and 42 swans. A staggering 416 presents in total. If that doesn’t represent Yuletide excess then I’m not sure what does! What on earth would the recipient do with all the gifts? I wouldn’t give that lot to my darkest enemy, let alone my true love.
The twelve days of Christmas
Interestingly, the original printed version of the song is from the North of England. The Bodleian Library houses a broadsheet published by a Newcastle printer named Angus between 1774 and 1825. It describes the piece as “An Old English Carol,” though it was technically a Christmas song used as a memory game. The lyrics in the Angus version were almost identical to another early publication from 1780 titled Mirth Without Mischief.
When the song was first printed, around 245 years ago, the population of the UK was just over nine million. In 1780, life in Newcastle was a mix of burgeoning Georgian prosperity, driven by coal and trade, and the harsh realities of rapid urbanisation, with crowded, squalid living conditions for many, intensifying class divides, but also featuring a strong civic identity centred around the Tyne River and the Bigg Market. These were the roots of capitalism taking hold amidst a backdrop of national political tension and the early stages of industrial transformation.
We still have a strong civic identity in the North East but, unfortunately, across the UK social tensions are as present as ever and, for many families, Christmas time is hard with soaring expectations unbalanced with rising poverty.
In the song, there may be some religious symbolism to the traditional gifts presented over the twelve days, but for today let’s take them at face value:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me twelve drummers drumming. With defence budgets going up, the military might be okay, and they often have bands in the armed services. However, I’m a pacifist and the noise may upset local wildlife, let alone set off my tinnitus again, so, for me, drummers are out.
Then the eleven pipers piping arrive; a little lighter music may be fine, but I really would prefer a bit of piped icing on a lovely bit of unctuous fruit cake.
Ten lords a-leaping? Some Lords are leaping, with joy after making fortunes from selling medical kits for the pandemic or other spurious dealings and just generally feeling that they are better than everyone else. I’m not sure if I want further inequality rubbed in my face and definitely don’t have the knees for a curtsy!
Also, cumulatively, with all the drummers, pipers and lords that could be an additional 64 mouths to feed. I already have my mother-in-law for Christmas, where on earth would I put them all? Out, out, out.
Nine ladies dancing next, I’m sure they would be lovely, but I never even have time to watch Strictly. Thank you, but no.
Eight maids a-milking may have been observed in 1780 but nowadays there are no maids doing any milking in the UK, it’s all done by machine. We are predominantly a house of oat milk drinkers and definitely wouldn’t want a load of maids, milking or otherwise, crammed into the house. As for their cows, the carbon impact would be catastrophic for Hubster’s carbon accounting spreadsheet! They are off the Christmas list.
Then come the birds. The UK currently has serious issues with avian flu, as well as the human variety, this year. So, bringing in multiple swans a-swimming or geese a-laying wouldn’t be the most sensible thing to do. They are both struck off the list.
Five golden rings? Nope. The humanitarian and environmental impacts of gold mining are horrendous. Supporting this extractive industry would not be something I wish for Christmas. They might be shiny but I’ll just keep the simple wedding band I’ve had for years.
Four calling birds were originally “four colly birds,” an old English term for blackbirds. We have a beautiful family of blackbirds on the smallholding, much as I appreciate that human migration is necessary, if we can delay the arrival of the mosquito borne Usutu virus, which is decimating blackbird populations in the south of England for as long as possible, that would be preferable.
French hens might be fine but we have ample eggs with our collection of bantams. It is also highly unlikely anyone will be getting a turtle dove as they are now incredibly rare in the UK, considered a Red List species due to a severe decline in numbers with a 99% drop since the 1960s. Let’s leave the remaining few be especially as they are protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act.
And as for the partridge in a pear tree, we have plenty of rogue pheasants which are released by the landed gentry for shooting so I’m not sure I want any partridges. It’s a ‘no’ to all new birds that don’t arrive under their own wing power. Also, pear trees don’t do well on the smallholding because we’re in a frost trap.
Much as the students loved shouting out the final line of a “Partridge in a Pear Tree”, the song just makes me think of over consumption and excess. Who wants to end the festive season bloated, overwhelmed and broke?
Needless to say, Hubster and I try to be sustainable over the festive season with a frugal yet fun attitude. It’s all about the presence rather than the presents. So, if we were to reconsider the song, what might he give to me? This is a one verse wonder, no repetition, or cumulative, unsustainable growth needed:
A new song
Twelve types of chilli seeds – Hubster literally adds spice to my life with copious chilli plants and he’s been cataloguing his seed collection for next year’s veg crop. He saves us a fortune by growing our own.
Eleven hedgerow saplings – more habitat for wildlife. Unlike shoes, you can never have enough habitat!
Ten logs for burning – we are now self-sufficient in fuel for the wood burner and can stay warm in case of power cuts which are more likely with the increasing severity of winter storms.
Nine buckets of biochar – capturing carbon, enriching soil, providing nutrients and storing water.
Eight pretty pebbles – found while preparing the no-dig beds for next year’s planting.
Seven rootstocks for grafting – traditional skills in action and more fruit trees to grow!
Six jars of jam – yummy and made from our own berries.
Five compost bins – well at least it rhymes with gold rings and is far more regenerative than extractive. There is no waste on the smallholding!
Four wooden hand-carved spoons – a gift of love for each of the family.
Three bottles of sloe gin – delicious and medicinal.
Two pairs of jeans for patching – the long nights are perfect for stitching and repairing.
A heritage apple tree – to add to the 50 apple trees he’s already planted.
My own “one true love” constantly considers climate impacts and regenerative practices of everything we do. I might not have presents under the tree but at least I won’t have any blooming leaping lords rampaging around the place or other stuff I don’t really need. If Hubster can arrange for a few beavers to populate the local Tyne tributaries and reduce flooding that would be the icing on the cake, no pipers of any variety needed.
Being a teacher on the edge of climate breakdown has its good days and bad days but the Christmas holidays are always much needed and greatly appreciated. Joyful and sustainable tidings to all readers, and everyone behind the scenes of the North East Bylines. And now, I’m ready for twelve days of regenerative rest. Hubster please get that sloe gin poured!
