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.
The rich, with their treasure, can roll at their leisure;
They know not, they feel not, for nothing but pleasure.
Full bellies don’t know what an empty one’s feeling,
Enough to set hundreds that’s honest a-stealing;
And farmers, now mind it, your corn quickly grind it,
And bring it to market, or you’ll be behind it;
And ’tatoes must drop, too—old chaps, you will find it,
The corn’s coming free, now the ports are open.
This dropping of food, instead of its rising,
To some of the bakers has come most surprising;
Such stocks they’ve laid in, thinking of making riches,
Through this fall of bread some will dirty their breeches!
The stores that’s hid up, now they out must be bringing,
Or else a dead weight on their hands will be ringing,
While sighing and crying we’ll merrily be singing—
Come, drop your bread, bakers, the ports are thrown open.
Set your pots on the fire which of late has been empty,
Pies, dumplings, and puddings, there soon will be plenty;
And ’tatoes must fall, too, for one thing remember,
All food’s to come free from the first of September;
And ships from all parts, now they are got in motion,
Their canvas well spread are a-ploughing the ocean,
To bring in cheap food from each foreign nation,
So, lasses and lads, shout, the ports are all open.
So now to conclude and finish my ditty,
This filling of bellies it sounds very pretty.
To thousands of jaws that look haggard and thin too,
So chuck away lads, your past time to regain now;
And butchers, your flesh meat may now be dropping,
Such rattling of grinders, and porridge pots wopping,
For some when they start there will be no stopping—
Shout huzza, lads and lasses, the ports are thrown open.
John Harkness, Printer, 121, Church Street, Preston.