Classic Poem

Of mighty woes in humble strains we sing,
Unknown to justice-chief or royal king,
Such pinching wants as ne'er made baron sad,
Or grave recorder in soft ermine clad.
“Good capon lin'd,” ye quaff the rosy bowl,
Whilst we pay two-pence for a penny roll;
Perch'd high above the baker's griping claws,
Ye sit regardless of the balance laws.

In days of yore, the clerk told us the tale,
When war prevail'd, or bread was wont to fail,
The pious folks straight took their pensive way
To bright Apollo, or dame Cybile,
With heaving breast the god remov'd the cause;
Or Rhea scar'd them by the slight of straws.
Thus bowing, we, and grievously oppress'd,
Submit our suff'rings to each feeling breast,
Whilst yet with grain the bending lofts are stor'd,
Twelve-pence to four will scarce one meal afford:
Tho' yellow harvest glads the farmer's heart,
Each loaf is stinted by at least one part,
Fame winds the trump of smiling plenty round,
To us that plenty's but an empty sound;
Each pigmy bun bears witness of the cheat,
And lank-gut bantlings grumble at the weight.
Then do we pray exert your wonted skill,
Detect these harpies and our satchels fill:
From great affairs one single day forego,
And strike with terrour these vile sons of dough;
May health and plenty crown your lengthen'd days!
The poor man's blessing is the richest bays.

We hope that your honours will not take amiss,
That thus we have stated our case;
For the gauger swored—n him, if ought was in this,
But he'd tell the lord may'r to his face.