FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,

My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;

At Christmas the family met there to dine

On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.

Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;

My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.

To Brighton we duly go scampering down,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,

Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,

Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,

Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.

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,

’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.

In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,

And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;

My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,

And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.

At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,

And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”

But would not express what I think for a crown,

For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;

His Majesty never invites me to dine;

The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,

Which makes me suspect that I’m nobody here.

If that be the case, why, then welcome again

Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.

Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown

That Nobody now spends his Christmas in town.