Such stocks they’ve laid in, thinking of making riches,
Through this fall of bread some will dirty their breeches!
The stores that’s hid up, now they out must be bringing,
Or else a dead weight on their hands will be ringing,
While sighing and crying we’ll merrily be singing—
Come, drop your bread, bakers, the ports are thrown open.
Set your pots on the fire which of late has been empty,
Pies, dumplings, and puddings, there soon will be plenty;
And ’tatoes must fall, too, for one thing remember,
All food’s to come free from the first of September;