THE
Troubles of this World:
OR,
Nothing Cheap but poor Mens Labour;
Concluding with a Line of Comfortable Consolation, to
Chear up our Drooping Hearts, in a time of Trouble.
To the Tune of, The Spinning Wheel.
Licensed according to Order.
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LEt honest Tradesmen now attend,
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and bear a mourful part with me,
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It is to you these lines I send,
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For to condole our Misery;
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I see the times which makes me weep,
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Here's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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The smiles of Fortune now are fled,
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And gloomy Clouds with grief appear;
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Since times are hard, and Tradeing dead,
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and e'ry thing excessive dear,
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Which makes some thousands sigh and weep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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Some Persons, that was free to give
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Relief to their poor Friends of late,
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Do hardly now know how to live,
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The Taxes being grown so great;
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Since things are dear their own they'll keep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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From forreign Lands all Merchandise,
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As Linnen, Silks, Fruit, Sugar, Spice,
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They to the Nation Sorrow rise,
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And to a vast excessive price,
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We have just cause to sigh and weep,
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Here's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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Those that have thousands lying by,
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Will hardly now the Poor regard,
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Tell them your grief, and they reply
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That Trading's dead, and Times are hard,
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And therefore what they have they they'll keep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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The Working-man may pinch and spare,
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To bring the weary Week about,
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At length there comes another care,
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How he shall lay his Mony out;
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Since at a price all things they keep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap,
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'Tis to be fear'd that some there are,
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Who do in private make their moan,
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Opprest with Poverty and Care;
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Yet cannot make their sorrow known,
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All things at a high price they keep,
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There's nought but poor Men Labour's cheap.
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There's not a Loaf of Bread we buy,
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But costs a double price or more,
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Of what it went at formerly,
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Now this must needs oppress the poor,
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And give them cause to sigh and weep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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We see in Country, Court, or Town,
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The rich will small Compassion show,
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Upon their sorrows they will frown,
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Of those that are but mean and low;
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Those things I see which makes me weep;
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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The rich Men they, continually,
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Run down the poor Mens Labour still,
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If he'll not work so, strait they cry,
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Begon, we know another will;
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And thus the poor in awe they keep,
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There's nothing but their Labour cheap.
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The Working-man he strait complies,
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Because of his young Children small,
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For half a Loaf of Bread he crys,
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Is better far than none at all,
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Because he hath a charge to keep,
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He's forc'd to Work and Labour cheap.
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When little Babes crys for relief,
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The one for Bread, the other Beer,
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There cannot be a greater Grief,
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To tender loving Parents dear,
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Than for to hear them make their moan,
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For Bread, perhaps, when they have none.
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Alas, too well, we understand,
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What causes all our Grief and Care,
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It is the Wars by Sea and Land,
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Alas, Alas, who can forbear,
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In these hard times, to sigh and weep,
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There's nought but poor Mens Labour cheap.
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Let's pray to God, intreat him still,
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To look upon our Grief and Pain,
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And if it be his blessed Will,
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To send the Nation Peace again;
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For while these Wars and Troubles are,
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Here's none but Sorrows, Grief, and Care.
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