He that will be a Slave, when he may be made free, Shall never be reckon'd a Brother by me; With such a low rascal to drink I disdain; To the LODGE let him go, and there rattle his chain, Amidst slaves, slaves, slaves like himself. Here's a health to the MERCHANTS, those Brothers indeed, Who show'd themselves friendly in time of our need, And join'd in requesting a Change of the SETT; A favour which TRADESMEN should never forget, When the toast, toast, toast goes round. Here's a block on the Tyrant who swore we should see His head on a block, ere the TRADES should be free; The TRADES shall be free whether he will or not; Their name shall be honour'd, when his name shall rot, And stink, stink, stink like a brock. Let us drink to our FRIENDS in the COUNCIL a brimmer, Who stood fast to their tackle, and forc'd the Old Trimmer, Like a cur with his tail 'twixt his legs, after pelting, To fly from the Chamber, and run away yelping For a Sist, Sist, Sist from the Lords. To the GRASS let him go, like that King of the East, Who for pride was degraded to GRAZE like a beast. Of the two, we are sure, our Oppressor is proudest; What was sauce for a King, may be sauce for a Provost. To the Grass, Grass, Grass let him go.
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Embro, Embro Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin