The Ballad-Makers Complaint:
OR,
The Satyrick Lamentation of the Trades Involved,
that their Labours permit them no time to reflect on Old Long Syne
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Should old pleasures be forgot
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and never thought upon:
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The thrill of work extinguished
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and Jolly past and g[o]ne:
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For this poore mule has gr[o]wn so old[e],
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the coffin be most kind,
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Dead thou canst no more reflect
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on Old Long Syne.
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For I'le long sigh my Job,
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oh I'le long sigh,
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Here thou canst never earn respect,
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so I'le long sigh.
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We've runne out of t's again,
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I had to spell 'the' 'she';
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Forgot the leading 'twixt the lines,
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now Master shall strike me.
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The deep displeasure of his [f]ace
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so fills this heart o' mine,
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I slipt some inke inside his ale:
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Now he'll longe sigh.
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For I'le long sigh my Job,
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oh I'le long sigh,
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Here thou canst never earn respect,
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so I'le long sigh.
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Woodcarving doth not banish woes,
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when faces are involv'd.
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My tool chipt off the Queen her nose,
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this cut shant be absolv'd;
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To curtezan I shal turn thee,
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with mole beneath thyne Eye:
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Thy skirts i'th stewes the Men shall sieze,
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oh I'le long sigh.
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For I'le long sigh my Job,
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oh I'le long sigh,
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Here thou canst never earn respect,
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so I'le long sigh.
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Oh papermaking pray prove more kinde
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and pull on me not stil;
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Since al my clothes ye have for pulp,
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my wife saith mee shee'l kill:
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These vatman's tears thwart my suc-cess,
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she'll beat mee with disdaine:
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Such strife doth make me want to couch,
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for Old Long Syne.
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For I'le long sigh my Job,
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oh I'le [l]ong sigh,
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Here thou canst never earn respect,
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so I'le long sigh.
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The Second Part. To the Same Tune.
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I'Ve cry'd my wares al down the streets,
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no soul doth harke to this.
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Oh hawking is a thanklesse task
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when London smells of piss.
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I'le sing this tune til voyce grows hoarse
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my wyfe can't hear my 'Fie
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The Beadle chases. 'Vagrant, cease!
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so I'le long sigh.
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Oh, I'le long sigh, my Job,
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for Old Long Syne,
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We ne'er have time for to reflect
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on Old Long Syne!
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But first of al the ballad tale
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an author must conceive.
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Poor I remayne tho' publish'd wel:
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Curs'd Anonymity.
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With quill gone dry and paper blanke
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my Help-mate is the pint.
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I should become a Roguish Cranke,
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so I'le no more sigh.
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Oh, I'le long sigh, my Job,
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for Old Long Syne,
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We ne'er have time for to reflect
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on Old Long Syne!
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I'l rayse a pot to the balladeers,
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with Tinker joyn the Fee;
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Wee'l sing my Song to please thine Ears,
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and drinke a health to mee.
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I'le post my Ballads on the Walls,
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and merrie times ye'll find,
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With pulp and inke and cuts enthral'd
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Thou'rt drawne to my designe.
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Oh, I'le long sigh, my Job,
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for Old Long Syne,
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We ne'er have time for to reflect
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on Old Long Syne!
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Oh, I'le no more sigh, my Job,
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for Old Long Syne,
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We raise a glass for to reflect
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on Old Long Syne!
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