Old England's New Save-all:
OR,
The Boasting F[a]rmer's Vain-glory.
Together with the Merchant, Weaver, and Taylor's Lamentation:
Concluding with Honest Tom the Cobler's Resolution.
To the Tune of, Let Mary live long.
Licensed according to Order.
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ONe night in my bed
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As then I was lying,
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With grief I was crying,
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Remembering bread
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was desperate dear:
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The Farmers they huff,
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And the Bakers cry puff,
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their gains are but small;
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But I'm sure the poor tradesman,
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I'm sure the poor tradesman
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must buy a Save-all.
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Five Farmers we hear,
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Strong liquor was quaffing,
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And merrily laughing,
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The Corn being dear,
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they well might carrouse:
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Nay, they often reply'd,
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Boys, the world's on our side,
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for liquor let's call;
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The labouring tradesman,
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The labouring tradesman
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may buy a Save-all.
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A Tinker that night
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Sat mending a Kittle,
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A bold man of mettle,
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Quoth he, by this light,
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you are villains in grain:
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But the weather grows fair,
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And warm is the air,
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I hope Corn will fall,
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And then jolly Farmers,
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And then jolly Farmers
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may buy Save-all.
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A Merchant stood by,
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Who griev'd and lamented,
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And seem'd discontented,
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I'll tell you for why,
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his losses was great:
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For his Ship homewards bound
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The French did surround,
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his comforts was small;
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He scarce had a penny,
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He scarce had a penny
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to buy a Save-all.
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A pox take the French,
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Quoth Bottom the Weaver,
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I'll do my endeavour
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To give them a drench
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of fire and smoak:
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They have made Silk so dear
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Amongst tradesmen here,
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to nothing we fall;
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Ten thousand poor Weavers,
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Then thousand poor Weavers
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may buy a Save-all.
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My case is the same,
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Says Trueman the Taylor,
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Wou'd I were a Sailor,
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For then sick or lame
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the King would take care
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To maintain me, I know,
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Now cabage grows low,
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to nothing I fall
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I have not a tester,
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I have not a tester
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to buy a Save-all.
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A sixpenny Loaf,
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(I will not dissemble)
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I have made it to tremble,
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When brisk I took off
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a pint of good Ale:
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I may now take my Sheers
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And clip off my ears,
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since to starving I fall;
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Poor Trueman the Taylor
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Must live with a Jaylor,
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or buy a Save-all.
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Come cease thy complaint,
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Quoth Tom the Translator,
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A true small-beer hater,
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My cheeks I must paint
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with liquor of life:
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Let us drink, boys, and fight,
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That our wrongs we may right;
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the French let us maul,
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Or else the whole Nation,
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Or else the whole Nation
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may buy a Save-all.
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I'll throw by my Last,
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On board I will enter,
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My life I will venter,
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To blow them a blast,
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which they little dread:
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While our Cannons do raor,
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We will drive them to shore
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with powder and ball;
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Or else poor old England,
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Or else poor old England
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may buy a Save-all.
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Ne'r fit like a moam,
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Here weeping and whining,
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Nay, sighing and pining,
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We leave house and home
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to meet the proud French:
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Come, by thousands let's go,
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We must soon lay them low,
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and make their pride fall;
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Or else poor old England,
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Or else poor old England
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may buy a Save-all.
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