’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.
At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.