So men and women and children too, Rejoice, you’ll soon have work to do, In spite of all the bread tax crew;-- Rejoice--they are defeated. Your teeth must soon commence the mill, And grind away with right good will, Your bellies every one can fill With puddings, pies, and dumplings, So women all shout out huzza. Hot cakes at will with good strong tea, And that honest debts you soon will pay, To your neglected belly. The poor will soon have to turn about, With corporations they’ll strut out, With American flour cheap and stout, Their bellies to adorn; The bones that now are thin and small, In loads of flesh they soon will fall, And on a cab will have to call, O what an alteration! Away with the hungry cry that’s been, Such mumping of bread was never seen! Long life attend our gracious Queen-- A woman rules the nation. A NEW SONG, OPENING THE PORTS. (Composed by E. Wrigley for his Three Strings.) Men, women, and children, come list to my story-- The ports are thrown open, your bellies may glory; Provisions must drop now, to satisfy many, Who long before this time could scarcely get any; For bread’s been so dear it was hard to be gotten, Potatoes so scarce, and one half of them rotten, These hard times I fear will ne’er be forgotten; But now wag your jaws, lad, the ports are thrown open. CHORUS. Chaw, chaw--banish this ruin, lads; Your grinders in motion, it’s keep them a-going, lads; Wag, wag, wag your jaws--let them be going, lads; Provisions must fall, now the ports are thrown open. In Ireland and Scotland the famine has raged so, Hundreds and thousands--old, young, middle-aged, too; Food’s been so scarce and so dear through the nation, That many grim death clam’d died through starvation. But let us all hope now these hard times are ended, Provisions come down fast, and trade be mended, That poor folk may live by their labour--God send it, Forget what is past, now the ports are thrown open. These millers and swailers, and other corn dealers, Their granaries well stocked with corn and meal is; In hopes of bread rising, from market they stop it-- These clam-gutted robbers--but now they must drop it. The grain that in warehouses years has been bonded, Must now be brought out--it’s our right to demand it; From all foreign shores fresh supplies will be landed, In spite of the tyrants, the ports are thrown open.