(Photo: Martin James Bishop/Wikipedia.)
Downton Abbey: a fond, if doggerel, lament
Lady Mary, thank God, is happy at last!
And Edith has married her man,
Robert and Cora no longer squabble
about hospitals and bedpans.
The Dowager Countess, still sharp as a tack,
seems to live on for ever,
while Carson, Barrow, and the rest of downstairs
adapt to new times in ways that are clever.
Six glorious seasons have shaped my soul,
the Crawley family we've grown to love,
they've graced my TV world for years.
Now they've gone, where shall I rove?
Only reality shows, which drive me to tears.
Edwardian England, the Titanic disaster,
World War I and the coming of the motor,
the Spanish flu, the Brownshirts too,
all these the Crawleys had to master.
As the TV series unrolled,
and the Crawley story was told,
we felt for Mary and her man from Anatolia,
Scandal was averted,
though blackmail from the perverted,
for a time, fed her melancholia.
Deaths a-plenty, some tragic, some sad,
tested the family, and us, to the limits,
Lady Sybil gone
and Matthew wiped out,
was a Crawley to fall every minute?
All through the show, from first season to last,
was a thread that sought Mary's happiness,
it often eluded, her hopes deluded,
while poor Edith endured Mary's snappiness.
While Barrow plotted sorrow and Carson was awesome,
and Mrs Patmore ran a fine kitchen,
Anna and Bates were almost too late
to escape the law's final lynching.
We are told it's all over, no more episodes to savour,
the Crawleys will no more be seen.
But maybe movies will beckon, and with enough money, I reckon,
the cast may in future, I hope, re-convene!