The Meal Mongers Garland (II)
Fire Brands of Satan are you then resolv'd
To live and die where you are now involv'd
Under the Curse of him that is most high,
Who hears the poor when they to him do cry?
Think you your Sack shall keep away his wrath
Or yet your Money when you yield your Breath:
And will you give your Souls eternally,
For Earthly rotten wasting vanity?
What is your Gold you by Extortion get,
Or what your Silver, will it make you great?
Goods by extortion got will soon decrease
And blast at once all that you do possess.
Cursed are ye who do the Corn withhold,
And blest is he that Corn and Meal hath sold,
To serve the poor with righteous lawful gain,
His Substance shall with him and his remain.
But ye that hord up meal till it be rotten,
And buries it where it must be forgotten
When it's in crawling Worms and red and blew,
Heavens direful Curse will surely fall on you.
Wretch can thou hear thy brother cry (I want)
And thou have plenty and the poor man scant?
And wilt thou take his Coat and Shirt away,
For as much food as saves his life one day?
Sure if thou dost, thou'st made a league with Hell
And has struck hands with Belzebub to dwell,
This is thy fate, thou can't expect another,
That sets thy self to starve thy Christian Brother.
Thou cannot eat thy own food with content,
And what thy Servants gets thou thinks ill spent
If thou could get thy barn fil'd full of Oar,
For one small peck of Meal thou would have more.
Ask all men in the Earth if they can tell
Of one that e'er grew rich with selling Meal,
I mean a Man that took unlawful gains
And if his Riches with his Seed remains.
Th wealthy Glutton would not Lazarus feed,
But let him starve and die for want of Bread.
And yet the Glutton dies as well as he
And is convey'd to endless misery.
Whilst Richer Lazarus Alleluja's sings
In Ab'rams bosom to the King of Kings,
Think on this man, all ye that starve the poor,
The Gluttons Portion's yours ye may be sure.
Ye that the needy do for Silver Sell,
And for a pair of shoes the Poor, (mark well)
That make the Epha small the Shekel great
And sell the base refuse of all your Wheat.
We fear you not, keep't as close up's ye can
We'll trust to Heaven, we're he can command
Food for to fall where Corn never grew.
And we can live by Faith, so cannot you.
For we believe and we are sure 'tis true,
We'll have a seed time and a harvest too
Then be ye sure the price of meal will fall
And that will strick you to the very gall.
So then the day that's yours he'll quickly turn
When we shall laugh, then ye shall howl and mourn
For he that set up on hie will then
turn o'er the scale and cast you down again.
And after that thou never more shall rise
For all the Devil and thou e'er can devise,
This day is posting, it is past thy noon,
Thou shall be cropt and lobt and so cut down.
Ye base Extortioners think how ye'll dwell,
In burning flames in everlasting Hell,
Take warning then, and feed the poor at last
And heaven perhaps will pardon what is past.
Back to Chapter
Back to Contents List
Embro, Embro
Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin
