My wife and me, though very poor, could keep a pig and cow, She could sit and spin and knit, and I the land could plough. There nothing was upon a farm, at all, but I could do, I find things very different now,--that’s many years ago. We lived along contented, and banished pain and grief, We had not occasion then to ask for parish relief, But now my hairs are grown quite grey, I cannot well engage, To work as I had used to do, I’m 90 years of age. But now that I am feeble grown, and poverty do feel, If, for relief I go, they shove me into a Whig Bastile,[38] Where I may hang my hoary head, and pine in grief and woe, My father did not see the like, just 90 years ago. When a man has laboured all his life to do his country good, He’s respected just as much when old, as a donkey in a wood, His days are gone and past, and he may weep in grief and woe, The times are very different now to 90 years ago. Now I am 90 years of age, if for relief I do apply, I must go into a Whig Bastile to end my days and die, I can no longer labour, as I no longer have, Then, at the last, just like a dog, they lay me in my grave. [Illustration] _THE NEW FASHIONED FARMER._ GOOD people all, attend awhile, Whilst I relate a story, How the farmers in old England, Did once support their glory. When masters liv’d as masters ought, And happy in their station, Until at length, their stinking pride, Has ruined all the Nation. _Chorus._ Let’s pray that hungry bellies may Be fill’d when they are empty, And where a servant gets ten pounds, I wish he may get twenty. A good old fashioned long grey coat, The farmers us’d to wear, Sir, And on old Dobbin they would ride, To market or to fair, Sir, But now fine geldings they must mount, To join all in the chace, Sir, Dressed up like any lord or ’squire, Before their landlord’s face, Sir. In former times, both plain and neat, They’d go to Church on Sunday, And then to harrow, plow, or sow, They’d go upon a Monday. But now, instead of the plough tail, O’er hedges they are jumping, And instead of sowing of their corn, Their delight is in fox hunting. The good old dames, God bless their names, Were seldom in a passion, But strove to keep a right good house, And never thought on fashion. With fine brown beer their hearts to cheer, But now they must drink swipes, Sir, It’s enough to make a strong man weak, And give him the dry gripes, Sir. The farmer’s daughters used to work All at the spinning wheel, Sir, But, now, such furniture as that, Is thought quite ungenteel, Sir. Their fingers they’re afraid to spoil, With any such kind of sport, Sir, Sooner than handle mop or broom, They’d handle a piano-forte, Sir.