The Rich FARMERS Ruine;
Who Murmured at the Plenty of the Seasons, because he
could not Sell Corn so Dear as his Covetous heart
desired.
To the Tune of, Why are my Eyes still flowing, As it is play'd on the Violin.
This may be Printed, R.P
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A Wealthy Man a Farmer, who had Corn great store
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Yet he was Cruel always to the Poor;
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And as the truth of him does very well appear,
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He thought he ne'r sold his Corn too dear;
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As to the Market one day he did go
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Finding the Prizes of Corn to below;
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Said he, before I will sell ought of mine,
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I'le carry it home for to fatten my Swine.
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In former days, as I can make it well appear,
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By my own Farm, I got hundreds a Year;
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I sold for Ten the Corn that will not now fetch Five,
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Is this the way for a Farmer to Thrive?
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Yet I will now sell no more at this Price,
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But am resolved to stay for a Rise:
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Thus he resolved to hoard up his store,
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That he might then make a Prey of the Poor.
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Another Farmer likewise then was standing by,
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Who when he heard him he thus did reply;
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You have a Farm and likewise Land, which is your own
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What cause have you then to make this sad moan?
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I that have nothing but what I do Rent,
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With Years of plenty, rejoyce in content:
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Give him the praise who such plenty does send,
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Lest when you murmur you highly offend.
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Said the Miser, what tho' I have got House and Land;
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Yet I would have you now well understand,
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I am not free to see the wasting of it all,
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And after that into Poverty fall:
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Have we not reason, alas! to Complain;
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To see the Cheapness of all sorts of Grain?
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If it continue, as sure as the Sun,
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I shall be ruin'd and clearly undone.
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I, but Neighbour, pray tell me wherefore do you grieve
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Does not a plenty the poor Men relieve?
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Here do I find, had you your will in selling Grain,
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Then might the Poor soon have cause to complain:
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For you are cruel, most harsh and severe,
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And think you can never sell it too dear:
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Why, says the other, what's poor Men to me?
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I'le keep my Corn till one Peck will fetch three.
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Then home he went, and bitterly he did repine,
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And in his Substance he soon did decline;
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For he was soon as Poor as any Man alive,
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For after this he by no means could Thrive:
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As he was walking one day round his Ground,
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His House was Robb'd of five hundred pound;
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Yet this was but the beginning of Woe,
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For in two Years he was brought very low.
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His Corn did waste, and many of his Cattle dy'd,
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Also great Losses and Crosses beside;
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Both House and Land through perfect need, at length he sold,
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Nothing but Ruine he then could behold:
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Tho' all was blasted and clearly decay'd,
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Yet none would pitty him, but thus they said:
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Seeing the Poor he did thus Circumvent,
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This is no more then a just Punishment.
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Like one forlorn and desolate, he then did Roam,
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Having no Dyet, Apparel, or Home,
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But his poor Life he ended Lodging in a Barn,
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From whence all Covetous Farmers may learn,
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How to give thanks for a Plentiful Year,
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And not to murmur that Corn is not dear:
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For those that shall do it most highly offend,
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Think of this Farmers Unprosperous End.
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