Rigs of the Time

O ‘tis of an old butcher, I must bring him in.
He charge two shillings a pound, & thinks it no sin
Slaps his thumb on the scale-weights & makes them go down,
He swears it's good weight yet it wants half a pound.

Singing honesty 's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time
Time, my boys,
These are the rigs of the time

Now next is the baker, I must bring him in.
He charge fourpence a loaf and thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, is not bigger than your fist,
And the top of the loaf is popped off with the yeast

O the next is a publican, I must bring him in,
He charges four pence a quart - he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, the measure is short:
The top of the pot is popped off with the froth.

Here’s next to the tailor who skimps on our clothes
And next to the shoemaker who pinches our toes
We’ve nought in our bellies, our bodies are bare
No wonder we’ve reason to curse and swear

Now absentee landlords, I must bring 'em in
With their sky-high rents and they think it no sin
Their ceilings fall in the walls run with slime
But they're for blacks or for Irish so no-one really minds

And next there’s the lawyer, you plainly will see
He’ll plead for your case for a very large fee
All day he will talk proving all wrong is right
He will make you believe that a black horse is white

And next there’s the parson, he will soon have your soul
If you stick to the Book you will keep off the dole
He’ll give you his blessing & likewise his curse
Put his hand in your pocket & walk off with your purse

And next there’s the doctor, I nearly forgot
I believe in my heart, he is the worst of the lot
He’ll tell you he’ll cure you for half you possess
And when you are buried he will take all the rest

Now the very best plan that I can find (to bring this to an end)
Is to pop them all up in a high gale of wynd (wind)
And when they get up, oh, the cloud it will burst
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first