The rich, with their treasure, can roll at their leisure;
They know not, they feel not, for nothing but pleasure.
Full bellies don’t know what an empty one’s feeling,
Enough to set hundreds that’s honest a-stealing;
And farmers, now mind it, your corn quickly grind it,
And bring it to market, or you’ll be behind it;
And ’tatoes must drop, too—old chaps, you will find it,
The corn’s coming free, now the ports are open.
This dropping of food, instead of its rising,
To some of the bakers has come most surprising;