Our London Weavers mean to show their masters, and the trade, That they will either cease to work, or else be better paid. In Spitalfields the Weavers worked with joy, in former ages, But they’re tired out of asking for a better scale of wages. The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made, For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid; They roll along in splendour, and with a saucy tone, As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone. In Liverpool the Postmen struck, and sent word to their betters, Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters, They asked for three bob more a week, and got it in a crack, And though each man has got his bag, they have not got the sack. The Cabmen, and their masters, made up their minds last week, To stop the Cabs from running, now is not that a treat, The Hackney Carriage Act[9] has proved a very bitter pill, It’s no use to call out, Cab, Cab,[10] drive off and show your skill. The Coopers and the Dockyard Men are all a going to strike. And soon there’ll be the devil to pay, without a little Mike, The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go, And swear they’ll have their wages rose, before they reap or sow. WE are all familiar with the carefully got up mendicants who infest the streets of London, with their mournful howls--how that they are “Frozen-out gardeners,” or “Have got no work to do,” etc., etc.; and in the early part of the century they were more numerous than now, as the police were not so efficient. One sample of this style of ballad must suffice. [Illustration] _THE MECHANIC’S APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC._ GIVE attention awhile to my rhymes, Good people of every degree, I assure you these critical times Have reduced me to great poverty. I’m a tradesman reduced to distress, Dame Fortune on me long has frown’d, And that is the cause, I confess, Which compels me to roam up and down. _Chorus._ _Then good people attend to my rhymes, And pity a tradesman reduced; For appealing to you in these times, I submissively hope you’ll excuse._ I once did in happiness dwell, With my family around me, at home; And little, (the truth I will tell) Did I think I’d have cause for to roam. But misfortune, she owed me a grudge, And entered in my Cottage door, And caused me in sorrow to mourn, And my misery long to deplore. Mechanics are now at a stand, And trade, in all quarters, is bad, They’re complaining all over the land, And their children are hungry and sad. Travel Britain wherever you will, You may behold everything dead, The tradesmen are all standing still, And their children are crying for bread.