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!"