You may be interested in this version, from Hugh De Witt's Bawdy Barrack-Room Ballads (London, 1970, p. 24):
It was Christmas Day in the workhouse, The season of good cheer; The paupers' hearts were merry, their bellies full of beer. The pompous workhouse master, As he strode about the halls, Called out: "A Merry Christmas!" But the paupers answered: "Balls!"
This angered the workhouse master, Who swore by all the gods That he'd stop their Christmas pudden, The dirty rotten sods! Then up spake a bald-headed pauper, His face as bold as brass: "You can keep your Christmas pudden, And stick it up your arse!"
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