I've only sung various parodies of this long poem by George Roberts Sims (posted above) and assumed that it was the usual Victorian sentimental claptrap. But evidently he was a serious muckracking journalist with his heart in the right place. His last verse nails most of us:

21. "There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don't mind me in the least;
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."

Cheerily,
Charley Noble