The baker will cheat you in the bread that you eat, And so will the butcher, in the weight of his meat; He’ll tip up the steelyards, and make them go down, And swears it is weight, when it lacks a half pound. The next are the ladies, the sweet little dears, At the balls and the parties, how nice they appear; With whalebones and corsets themselves they will squeeze, You have to unlace them before they can sneeze. Next is the tinker, he’ll mend all your ware, For little or nothing, some ale or some beer; But before he begins, he’ll get half drunk or more, And in stopping one hole, why he’ll punch twenty more. The judge on his bench, so honest and true, He’ll stare at a man, as though he’d look him through; He’ll send him a year or six months to the jail, And for five dollars more, why he’ll go your bail. Then next is the doctor, he’ll cure all your ills, With his puffs and his powders, his syrups, and squills, He’ll give you a dose that will make you grow fat, Or some pills that will leave you but your boots and your hat. The ladies must all have their silks and their laces, And things they call bonnets, to show off their faces; But their figure, however, can never be seen, For they are hoop’d like a barrel, with French crinoline. The last is the sheriff, who thinks himself wise, He’ll come to your house with a big pack of lies; He’ll take all your property that he can sell, And get drunk on the money, that’s doing right well, In these hard times. Ben Bolt. 25 Copied by permission of PETERS & SONS, Fourth St., Cincinnati O owners of the Copyright. Don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown, Who blush’d with delight if you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown? In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and lone, They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, And Alice lies under the stone. Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, That stood at the foot of the hill, Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade, And listen’d to Appleton’s mill. The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet that crawls round the wall as you gaze, Takes the place of the olden din.