That poor folk may live by their labour—God send it,
Forget what is past, now the ports are thrown open.
These millers and swailers, and other corn dealers,
Their granaries well stocked with corn and meal is;
In hopes of bread rising, from market they stop it—
These clam-gutted robbers—but now they must drop it.
The grain that in warehouses years has been bonded,
Must now be brought out—it’s our right to demand it;
From all foreign shores fresh supplies will be landed,
In spite of the tyrants, the ports are thrown open.