Chorus.
Let’s pray that hungry bellies may
Be fill’d when they are empty,
And where a servant gets ten pounds,
I wish he may get twenty.
A good old fashioned long grey coat,
The farmers us’d to wear, Sir,
And on old Dobbin they would ride,
To market or to fair, Sir,
But now fine geldings they must mount,
To join all in the chace, Sir,
Dressed up like any lord or ’squire,
Before their landlord’s face, Sir.
In former times, both plain and neat,
They’d go to Church on Sunday,
And then to harrow, plow, or sow,
They’d go upon a Monday.
But now, instead of the plough tail,
O’er hedges they are jumping,
And instead of sowing of their corn,
Their delight is in fox hunting.
The good old dames, God bless their names,
Were seldom in a passion,
But strove to keep a right good house,
And never thought on fashion.
With fine brown beer their hearts to cheer,
But now they must drink swipes, Sir,
It’s enough to make a strong man weak,
And give him the dry gripes, Sir.
The farmer’s daughters used to work
All at the spinning wheel, Sir,
But, now, such furniture as that,
Is thought quite ungenteel, Sir.
Their fingers they’re afraid to spoil,
With any such kind of sport, Sir,
Sooner than handle mop or broom,
They’d handle a piano-forte, Sir.
Their dress was always plain and warm,
When in their holiday clothes, Sir,
Besides, they had such handsome cheeks,
As red as any rose, Sir.
But now, they’re frilled and furbelowed,
Just like a dancing monkey,
Their bonnets and their great black veils,
Would almost fright a donkey.
When wheat it was a guinea a strike,[39]
The farmers bore the sway, Sir,
Now with their landlords they will ride,
Upon each hunting day, Sir.
Besides, their daughters they must join
The ladies at the Ball, Sir,
The landlords say, we’ll double their rents,
And then their pride must fall, Sir,
I hope no one will think amiss,
At what has here been penned, Sir,
But let us hope that these hard times
May speedily amend, Sir.
It’s all through such confounded pride,
Has brought them to reflection,
It makes poor servants’ wages low,
And keeps them in subjection.
PRESENT TIMES, OR EIGHT SHILLINGS A WEEK.[40]
Come all you bold Britons, where’er you may be,
I pray give attention, and listen to me,
There once was good times, but they’re gone by complete,
For a poor man lives now on Eight Shillings a week.
Such times in old England there never was seen,
As the present ones now; but much better have been,
A poor man’s condemned, and looked on as a thief,
And compelled to work hard on Eight Shillings a week.
Our venerable fathers remember the year,
When a man earned three shillings a day, and his beer.
He then could live well, keep his family neat,
But now he must work for Eight Shillings a week.
The Nobs of “Old England,” of shameful renown,
Are striving to crush a poor man to the ground,
They’ll beat down their wages and starve them complete,
And make them work hard for Eight Shillings a week.
A poor man to labour (believe me ’tis so),
To maintain his family is willing to go
Either hedging, or ditching, to plough, or to reap,
But how does he live on Eight Shillings a week.
In the reign of old George, as you all understand,
Here then was contentment throughout the whole land,
Each poor man could live, and get plenty to eat,
But now he must pine on Eight Shillings a week.
So now to conclude and finish my song,
May the times be much better, before it is long,
May every labourer be able to keep
His children and wife on Twelve Shillings a week.
There are very few Statute, or hiring, fairs now in existence, and perhaps it is as well, as a great deal of drunkenness and immorality used to occur at these meetings. The servants stood in groups according to their callings, each bearing some token of their employment; for instance, the carters carried a piece of whipcord. Employers of labour came and personally interviewed them, wages were agreed upon, and the hiring was for a year certain.
