The Tradesmen's Toast

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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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin