Humpty Dumpty: We learned the rhyme before we learned the story

Alice: “Don’t you think you’d be safer down on the ground? That wall is so very narrow!”
Humpty Dumpty: “Why, if ever I did fall off — the King has promised me — all his horses and all his men…”

— Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

Most assume Humpty Dumpty is a story about an egg. But like all nursery rhymes, its roots go deeper — and darker. Let me assure you: this is no ordinary scramble. It’s about war. The kind each of us fights — quietly, every day, hoping to stay on our feet.

England, 1648.

The Second Civil War was smoldering.

On one side: the King’s Men, or Royalists — resplendent in feathered hats, lace collars, and long hair spilling out of wide-brimmed cavalier hats. They stepped out of a Shakespearean romcom, armed with muskets and divine right.

Then the other: Parliamentarians — nicknamed Roundheads for their close-cropped hair and somber dress. They wore buff leather coats, carried Bibles as often as swords, and marched with the zeal of gospel preachers.

One faction, desperate to preserve the monarchy and the old order of things. The other, battling for something untested — a strange new dream that would one day be called democracy.

The Earl of Norwich — close chum of King Charles I, a seasoned royalist — stormed into East Anglia like he still owned the place. His destination? Colchester. It wasn’t just power they were fighting for. It was the future, by which they meant the good old days — when kings were king.

Royalty was an attitude. Parliament? Mere mortals. What did they matter?

In June, the King’s Men stormed the city of Colchester. Boots on the ground, muskets cocked, and the town turned Royalist scarlet overnight. They turned their gates inward, barricaded the streets, and lit pipes. Feeling supremely confident, as they had a secret weapon. A cannon like no other pointed straight at the enemy’s throat.

But the Roundheads came fast and furious, circling the town, and cut off the roads. With every exit blocked, what followed wasn’t a battle, but a slow, brutal death march. Food ran out. Water turned foul. Horses were eaten. So were dogs. Rats were next.

Atop Colchester’s ancient ramparts sat the Royalists’ massive cannon, so large it had to be hoisted precariously onto a broad stretch of wall. The sight was glorious. The Royalists believed it made them invincible. The townspeople thought it looked rather funny and gave it a nickname: Humpty Dumpty.

Let’s be clear. It wasn’t shaped like an egg. But it was fragile, top-heavy, and prone to minor disturbances. Like most of us.

The Roundheads made a tactical decision: don’t attack the cannon. Attack the wall. Ignore the book. Smash the shelf.

After a flurry of cannonades, to the Royalists’ delight, seeming to miss as they slammed low against the wall, Humpty Dumpty finally tumbled from his perch.

The King’s Men began to feel queasy. Tried to remount it. But it was too big. The wall beneath was too broken. Their only advantage was gone. And just like that, Colchester was gutted. The Royalists surrendered. That failure cost them more than the battle, soon the monarchy itself fell. For want of a decent place to stand, the King’s head rolled.

And a nursery rhyme was written in their honor:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Lewis Carroll made us believe Humpty was an egg. But the truth? He was a last, desperate shot at making a stand, only built on the wrong foundation. And when Humpty fell, it wasn’t just a cannon that broke that day in Colchester, it was a dynasty.