Potatoes are useful,
If they be but good:
The ground must be till’d,
Or we cannot have food.
That Hound, I dare say,
Won’t like the Boy’s whip;
Could he break the cord,
He would give him the slip.
Poor Jack! I’m afraid
That thy bum will be sore:
That footmen were boot-jacks
I ne’er knew before.
You here see a poor man
Repairing a chair;
He sits on the ground,
Quite expos’d to the air.
Silk, Cotton, and Sugar,
And Coffee, and Tea,
Are fetch’d by the sailors
Across the great sea.