A Song

A SONG

While a thousand fine objects are planned every day,
Old England to white-wash and make her look gay,
The exorbitant price of provision’s forgot,
And starving, I fear, is the poor people’s lot.
+++++++++++++++Derry down &c.

Though the markets are stored with good mutton and beef,
To the Tradesmen no help, to the Poor no relief,
By cursed forestallers the rates are so high,
That none but a Jew or a Dutchman can buy.

Whilst the streets to enlarge our good Citizens scheme,
And in pulling down houses continually dream;
These clever projectors, their wisdom’s so great,
Forget while they labour poor wretches must eat.

Whilst the purse proud Directors with riches o’ergrown,
Are raising up mountains of timber and stone,
The Poor scarce a bit of belly-timber can find,
To patch up their bodies and keep out the wind.

While our Easter Bashaws are amassing great treasure,
And making and un-making Nabobs at pleasure;
While these wealthy Engrossers their Millions tell o’er,
The want of a dinner ten thousand deplore.

As the right of their conquests are now in debate,
By the Money obtained and the blood of the state,
If the nation is wronged, and no recompence made,
Demolish their Charter and give a free Trade.

While the epicure Alderman’s cramming his belly,
And feasting on Pheasants, on Venison and jelly,
While Turtles and Turbots his tables bespread,
A poor family dines on a morsel of bread.

While guttling Committees and Companies meet,
To eat and to drink, and to drink and to eat,
Full bellies regard not the poor Man’s distress,
Then what hopes of relief? and what means of redress?

Ye Lords of the Court, and great Dons of the city,
On the poor people’s wants and distresses take pity,
And when for the good of the Nation you treat,
Contrive that the Poor may have something to eat.