For many a winter in Billiter Lane
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was ne'er 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.

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:
Now we lodge on the Steine, in a bow-windowed box,
That beckons up stairs every zephyr that knocks;
The Sun hides his head, and the elements frown-
Still, nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

At Brighton I'm stuck up in Lucombe's Loo-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 sand in my eyes, and my mouth full of salt:
Yet, still, I am suffering with folks of renown-
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

The wind gallops in at the full of the moon,
And puffs 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 mutter in secret,- 'Ah, 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 not cronies-of mine;
His majesty never invites me to dine;
The marquess don'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.