Merry Tom of all TRADES;
OR,
A trick to get money at every dead lift,
Made known by Tom of all Trades, that bravely could shift,
From one Place to another, about he did range,
And at his own pleasure his Trade he could change.
The Tune is, Behold the Man.
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MY name is Tom of all Trades,
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there's many knows me well,
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But no man needs examine me,
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to know where I do dwell;
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For why my common custom is,
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to ramble up and down,
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And I have left behind me,
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full many a gallant Town,
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Then hey for Tom of all Trades,
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is all the peoples cry,
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And point their fingers at me,
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as I am passing by.
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Sometimes I am a Taylor,
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and work well as I can,
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And if you'l take my own word for't,
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I am an honest man,
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All those that are my customers,
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I use them all so well,
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The third part of their cloth
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I throw it into Hell.
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Yet hey, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Glover,
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and make perfumed Gloves,
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And every kind of Fashion,
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for young-men and their Loves;
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All those that do deal with me,
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good penniworths shall have,
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You know that Tom of all trades,
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doth seldom play the Knave,
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Yet hey, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Shoomaker,
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fine ware I make to sell,
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And can fit a pretty Wench,
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and please her humours well,
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But if in drawing on her shooes,
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my hand should chance to slip,
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I soon can make amends again:
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with smacking of her lips
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But hey, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Weaver,
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and let my Shuttle flye,
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But if the Ale-house catch me,
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then woe be to the Pye;
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And if I chance to loyter
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but five days in the week,
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'Tis ten to one on Sunday
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my Dinner is to seek:
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Yet hey for Tom of all Trades,
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is all t[h]e peoples cry,
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And point there fingers at me,
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SOmetimes I am a Baker,
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wherein is no deceit,
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There's no man can accuse me
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for making too much weight:
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But for my Lord Mayors Officers,
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I dare not come them nigh,
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For fear that they should put my head
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into the Pillory.
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Then hey for Tom of all Trades,
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is all the peoples cry, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Miller,
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my actions are so just,
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I never cozen any one
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but them that do me trust:
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When I put in my Cole-dish,
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so honestly I deal,
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That out of one whole bushel of grist
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I but a Peck do steal.
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Yet hey, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Black-smith,
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and Vulcan is my name,
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But if my Wife do horn me,
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there's no man can me blame,
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For if it be my Fortune,
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a Cuckold for to dye,
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There's others of my Neighbours,
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do so as well as I.
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Yet hey, etc.
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The Brewers trade I practice,
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sometimes the rest among,
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And I can make my Ale and Beer
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both Nappy stout and strong.
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But like to other Brewers
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I order well the matter,
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For if I put in too little Mault,
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I put in the more water.
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Yet hey, etc.
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Sometimes I am a Shaver
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and Barb well as I can,
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And I can trim a woman
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as well as any man:
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My Razor and my Washing-balls,
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make me so neat a Barber,
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That I can cut the hair so close
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a Louse can have no harbour.
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Yet hey, etc.
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Sometimes I keep an Ale-house
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the best trade of them all,
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For they will surely stand fast
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when other trades do fall:
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I likewise keep two Wenchs brave
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that can both kiss and spin,
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And they will wait on Gentlemen
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and bring me profit in.
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Yet hey, etc.
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When all these trades do fail me,
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the truth of all is so,
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Unto Barbados, Jamacio, or
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New England will I go:
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Or to High Spaniola,
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among the Golden Ore,
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For there is room enough for me
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and forty thousand more.
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Then hey, etc.
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