Classic Poem

While a thousand fine projects are planned ev'ry day,
Old England to whitewash, and make her look gay,
The exorbitant price of provisions forgot,
And starving, I fear, is the poor people's lot.

Though the markets are stored with good mutton and beef,
To the tradesman no help, to the poor no relief;
By cursed forestallers the rates are so high,
That none but a Jew or a Dutchman can buy.

Whilst the streets to enlarge our good citizens scheme,
And on pulling down houses continually dream;
These clever projectors, their wisdom so great,
Forget, while they labour, poor wretches must eat.

While the purse-proud directors, with riches o'ergrown,
Are raising up mountains of timber and stone,
The poor scarce a bit of belly-timber can find,
To patch up their bodies and keep out the wind.

While our eastern bashaws are amassing great treasure,
And making and unmaking nabobs at their pleasure;
While these wealthy engrossers their millions tell o'er,
The want of a dinner ten thousand deplore.

As the right of their conquests are now in debate,
By the money obtained, and the blood of the state,
If the nation is wronged, and no recompense made,
Demolish their charter and give a free trade.

While the epicure alderman's cramming his belly,
And feasting on pheasants, on ven'son and jelly;
While turtles and turbots his tables bespread,
A poor family dines on a morsel of bread.

While guttling committees and companies meet,
To eat and to drink, and to drink and to eat;
Full bellies regard not the poor man's distress;
Then what hopes of relief? And what means of redress?

Ye lords of the court, and great dons of the city,
On the poor people's wants and distresses take pity;
And when for the good of the nation you treat,
Contrive that the poor may have something to eat.