We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.
These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,