Alas poore Trades-men what shall we do?
OR,
LONDONS Complaint through badnesse of Trading,
For work being scant, their substance is fadeing.
To the Tune of, Hallow my Fancy whether wilt thou goe?
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AMidst of melancholly trading,
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out of my store,
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I found my substance fading
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all my houshold viewing,
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which to ruine
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Falls daily more and more:
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Forth then I went
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And walkt about the City,
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Where I beheld
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What mov'd my heart with pity:
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And being home returned
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I thought upon this ditty,
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Alas poor Trades-men
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What shall we doe.
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Shops, Shops, Shops, I discry now
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with Windows ready shut,
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They'l neither sell nor buy now,
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Whilst our Lords and Gentry,
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are ith Countrey,
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the more is our griefe god-wott:
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Woe to the causers
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Of this seperation
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Which bred the civill
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Wars in this Nation.
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It is the greatest cause
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Of Londons long vacation,
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Alas poore Trades-men
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What shall we doe.
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Forts in the fields new erected
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where multitudes do run,
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To see the same effected:
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All their judgement spending,
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and commending
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the same to be well done:
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But yet I feare,
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Our digging and our ramming,
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Scarse can defend
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The poorest sort from famine,
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For all the rich may have
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As much as they can cramme in,
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Alas poore trades-men
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What shall we doe.
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One may perhaps have large
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whil'st thou and more complaines
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Oppressed with their charge:
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All this care and toyling,
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with for moyling,
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affords but little gains:
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In hopes of peace
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Ourselves have deluded,
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That on our store
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So far we have intruded,
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Except a happy peace
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Amongst us be concluded,
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Alas poore trades-men
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What shall we doe.
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The second Part, To the same Tune.
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COrn God be thank't is not scant yet,
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and yet for ought we know
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The poorer sort may want it.
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In the midst of plenty,
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more than twenty
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have found it to be so:
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For if they have not
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Money for to buy it,
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The richer sort they
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Have hearts for to deny it,
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If that youl not beleeve me,
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You'l finde it when you try it,
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Alas poore trades-men
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What, etc.
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Whilst we were wel imploied,
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and need not for to play,
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We plenty then enjoyed:
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Every weeke a Noble
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clear without trouble,
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is better than eight pence a day:
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Yet on the Sabbath day
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We used to rest us,
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And went to'th Church
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To pray, and God hath blest us.
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But since the civill wars
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Begun for to molest us,
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Alas poore trades-men
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What, etc.
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All things so out of order,
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the Father kills the Son,
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Yet this they count no murder
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Wars are necessary,
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oh no, but tarry,
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I wish they'd not bin begun,
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For where a Kingdom
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Is of itselfe divided,
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And people knows not
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By whom they should be gui-ded
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It is too great a matter
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By me to be decided.
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Alas poore trades-men
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What, etc.
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Now to conclude my ditty,
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the Lord send England peace
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And plenty in this City:
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Grant the land may flourish,
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long for to nourish
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us with her blest increase.
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Our Gracious King,
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The Lord preserve and blesse Him
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With safe return
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To them that long do misse him,
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And send him to remain
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With them that well do wish him,
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Alas poor trades-men
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What shall we doe.
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