The Meal Mongers Garland
Come Willie I'll tell you the News
and they are very good,
The Frost has hindred the plows
And all the Poor wants Food.
How mickle Meal hae ye?
And where will ye gang we'd?
We will not yet supplie,
Tilll they be almost Dead.
Will ye be rul'd by me,
And I will lead the way,
And we will send to see,
On every Merkat day.
What rates each Market bears,
For fear the Price should fall
[line omitted in printing?]
And the Markets we will forestall.
In every Market Town,
Our orderly Man shall stand
And raise the peck to a Crown,
So we'll get all free Land,
With Masks and Fans and Gloves,
Our Daughters shall be bra,
Our Lads shall Court their Loves
With Whips and Spurs and a.
In Heads so finely drest
With Ribbons our Wives shall flee,
And we among the rest
Will Swagger like who but wee.
We'll a buy famous Hatts
With boots and spurs and Wigg
Housings and Hulster caps,
O wooe but we'll look bigg.
And we'll hae pistols too
In ye'll believe my Word,
Then what will the Countrey do
When each of us get's a Sword
And each a box of Snuff
The best and not the worst,
O then! how we will huff!
We'll a be finely Horst.
The best Cloath can be had
We'll all buy for our Cloaths,
Then all that can be said
There rides the Oatmeal beaus
And we'll buy lusty purses
To hold our ill gotten gain,
And a Bag for to hold all the Curses
And then we will swagger amain.
What dill man art thou mad!
Or have you lost your sence?
Where's all the wit ye had?
Ye'd better hoard up your pence:
For this time will not hold,
The price o' the meil will fall,
Alas! it is no jest,
Ah, that's the Devil and all.
Make Porridge and Sowens but thin,
And tell the lads this Year,
The eating of much, is a Sin,
For Corn and meal is dear,
Tell them that many Poor Men
Eat Herbs and drink clear Water
Sav't from the Servants if you can
But the poor shall be little better.
We'll a hord up the meil
As long as ever we can
What ever we have conceal'd
Confess it to never a Man,
Till all of them Cringe and bow
And cry dear Sir we want
A bushel of meal for a Cow,
O then! brave boys we'll rant.
Take care my dearest honey
Take care of money ill gotten.
Pish, Woman, if I get the Money
I value not Conscience a Butten;
Let all the poor folk Curse
And all the Curses fail,
If I get a pondrous purse,
I care not a fig for them all.
I'll raise my family,
And none shall me controul,
And when I come to Die,
If I have lost my Soul,
For giving so little a Peck,
And taking so mickle gain,
I'll tie my self into my sack
And in Hell it will keep out the Flames.
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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin
