It was Christmas Day in the workhouse, The season of good cheer, The paupers hearts were merry, And their bellies full of beer. Up spoke the workhouse master As he strode about the halls, "A Merry Christmas paupers" And the paupers answered "Balls!"
This angered the workhouse master, And he swore by all the gods They'd get no Christmas pudding, The dirty rotten sods. Then up stood a hard old pauper, A veteran of Khyber Pass; "You can take your Christmas pudding, And stuff it up your arse!"