The Prophetick Ballad with merry Remarks upon Exchange
Alley Bubbles) To the Tune of London is a fine Town
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In London stands a famous Pile,
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and near that Pile an Alley,
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where merry crowds for Riches toil,
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and wisdom stoops to folly.
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here Sad and Joyful, High and Low,
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court Fortune for her Graces,
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and as she smiles or frowns,
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they shew their Gestures & Grimaces.
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(2)
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Here Stars and Garters do appear,
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Among our Lords the Rabble,
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To buy and sell, to see and hear,
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The Jews and Gentiles squable.
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Here crafty Courtiers are too wise
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For those who trust to Fortune,
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They see the Cheat with clearer Eyes,
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Who peep behind the Curtain.
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(3)
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Our greatest Ladies hither come,
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And ply in Chariots daily,
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Oft pawn their Jewels for a Sum,
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To venture in the Alley.
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Young Harlots too, from Drury Lane,
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Approach the Change in Coaches,
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To fool away the Gold they gain
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By their obscene Debauches.
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(4)
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Long Heads may thrive by sober rules,
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Because they think and drink not,
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But Headlongs are our thriving fools,
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Who only drink and think not,
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The lucky Rogues like Spaniel Dogs,
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Leap into South Sea Water,
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And there they fish for Golden Frogs,
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Not careing what comes a'ter.
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(5)
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Tis said that Alchimists of old
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Could turn a Brazen Kettle,
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Or leaden Cistern into Gold,
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That noble tempting Mettle,
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But if it here may be allow'd,
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To bring in Great and Small things,
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Our cunning South Sea like a God,
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Turns nothing into all things.
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(6)
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What need have we of Indian Wealth,
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Or Commerce with our Neighbours,
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Our Constitution is in Health,
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And Riches crown our Labours,
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Our South Sea Ships have golden Shrouds
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They bring us Wealth tis granted
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But lodge their Treasure in the Clouds,
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To hide it till it's wanted.
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(7)
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O Britain bless thy present State,
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Thou only happy Nation,
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So odly Rich so madly great,
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Since Bubbles came in fashion,
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Successful Rakes exert their Pride,
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And count their airy Millions,
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Whilst homely Drabs in Coaches ride
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Brought up to Town on Pillions.
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(8)
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Few men who follow Reasons Rules,
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Grow fat with South Sea Diet,
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Young Rattles and unthinking fools,
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Are those that flourish by it,
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Old musty Jades and pushing Blades,
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Who've least Consideration,
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Grow rich apace whilst wiser Heads,
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Are struck with admiration.
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(9)
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A race of men, who t'other day,
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Lay crush'd beneath Disasters,
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Are now by Stock brought into play,
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And made our Lords and Masters.
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But should our South Sea Babel fall,
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What numbers would be frowning,
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The losers then must ease their Gall,
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By hanging or by drowning.
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(10)
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Five hundred Millions Notes and Bonds,
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Our Stocks are worth in Value,
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But neither lie in Goods or Lands,
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Or money let me tell ye.
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Yet tho our Foreign Trade is lost,
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Of mighty wealth we Vapour,
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When all the Riches that we boast,
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Consist in Scraps of Paper.
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