Must all be made into barley loaves;
So drunkards all I tell to you true,
It’s old hock you must bid adieu!
No more of that will be I vow,
So you must drink all treacle now.
Now, to conclude and make an end,
I hope the times they soon will mend,
Send trade and commerce to our shore,
Then the working men will grieve no more,
In peace and unity, they will unite,