The Present State of England:
CONTAINING
The Poor Man's Complaint in a Land of PLENTY;
Occasioned by the many Abuses offer'd by the Ingrossers of Corn, and likewise Brandy-
Stillers, which makes a Scarcity in a time of Plenty.
To the Tune of, O Folly, desperate Folly, etc.
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AS I was musing all alone,
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with sorrowful heart of care,
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To see how hard the times was grown,
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it carry'd me to despair;
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I sigh'd to my self, and shed many a tear,
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To think of poor people who live far and near,
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Who could not get money, yet ev'ry thing dear.
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O England, sorrowful England,
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When will thy troubles end?
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I fear the times grow worse and worse,
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in Country and in Town,
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Too many wears an empty purse,
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like wanderers up and down,
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Because they have little or nothing to do,
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Their trading now dead, and provision dear too
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It makes them with sorrow look pitiful blew.
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O England, restless England,
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When will thy troubles end?
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A restless people we have been,
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which never are satisfi'd,
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This makes our griefs come flowing in,
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like billows on ev'ry side:
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With war, want, and poverty we are opprest,
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Yet were the land loyal we soon should be blest,
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But we are a people that ne'er are at rest.
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O England, restless England,
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When will thy troubles end?
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Each Meal-man is a cunning elf,
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the corn they engrose and buy,
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Thus ev'ry man is for himself,
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the poor they may starve and dye;
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For tho' they might buy at a moderate price,
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They lay up the same in hopes of a rise,
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And let the poor perish and starve in a trice,
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O Meal-men, covetous Meal-men,
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You are this day to blame.
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Sometimes I have been at a stand,
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when hearing the poor complain,
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As knowing this a fruitful land,
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In every sort of grain:
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I thought to my self there was knavery us'd,
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By which the whole Kingdom was grossly abus'd,
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Now this is a crime which cannot be excus'd.
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O Villains, covetous Villains,
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Why would you starve the Poor?
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I do not blame the Farmers, no,
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who bringing their Corn to Town,
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Will sell it there as prises go,
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soon after they set it down;
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'Tis those that I blame who do keep it in store,
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In hope they shall sell it for twice as much more,
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'Tis these that endeavour to starve up the poor.
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O Villains, covetous Villains,
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What do you mean to do?
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Another thing I have been told,
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which causes the Corn to rise,
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They say in Markets it is sold,
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to carry as Marchandize
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A cross the wide ocean, but I know not where:
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Yet here is one thing which is true I declare,
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The poor are incumber'd with trouble and care.
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O England, sorrowful England,
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When shall we see good days?
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There is another gross abuse,
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which makes our good Corn so dear,
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Rich Stillers buy it for their use,
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in making of Brandies here:
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And thus they destroy all the best of our wheat,
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To make drunkards tumble & roul in the street,
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When some han't a morsel of bread for to eat.
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O Stillers, desperate Stillers,
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Are you not much to blame?
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Sure Conscience now is from us fled,
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which we did of late injoy,
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For though men sees the want of bread,
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our Corn they do still destroy;
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Hot liquors they make with the staff of our food,
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To please old drunkards, the Brandymens brood
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For which I declare they deserve to be su'd.
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O Stillers, covetous Stillers,
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Are you not much to blame?
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If men had honest hearts indeed,
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and brotherly love also,
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The poor they might in plenty feed,
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As well as the rich I know;
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But if the whole truth I must tell you in brief,
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Base covetousness is the cause of our grief,
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And the poor they do languish for want of relief.
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O England, covetous England.
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What do you mean to do?
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