What Shall — We Do for Meat! We Do for Meat!
Old England, once upon a time,
Was prosperous and gaily,
Great changes you shall hear in rhyme,
That taking place is daily.
A poor man once could keep a pig,
There was meat for every glutton,
Folks now may eat a parson’s wig,
For they’ll get no beef or mutton.
The times are queer, and things are dear,
Well, it really is alarming;
Up and down, country and town,
I think we’ll all be starving.
Although the times are very queer,
Some old women have a way got,
To raise themselves a drop of beer.
Or a drop of gin in the teapot.
If meat was seven shillings a pound,
Old Polly, Kit, and Sally,
Would find the means to guzzle down,
A little cream of the valley.
The butchers now, oh dear! oh dear!
Declare no meat they can sell,
Five thousand is gone to Colney Hatch,
And seven thousand to Hanwell.
Sixteen jumped in the water-butt,
Lamenting they did shiver,
Three ship-load sailed down to Gravesend town,
And went to sleep in the river.
Bullock’s head will be two shillings a pound,
And if I’m not mistaken,
We shall have to pay a half-a-crown
For a slice of rusty bacon.
I wonder what they do put in
The faggots and the sausages?—
Cold donkeys’ dung, says Biddy Flinn,
Candle ends and rotten cabbages.
The butchers now are gone to pot,
Crying, oh! such times was never,
They lay their heads on a greasy block,
Saying, we are done for ever.
They cannot cry, who’ll buy! who’ll buy!
Their marrow bones are aching,
For want of beef they seek relief,
And will be sent stone breaking.
Old Molly Bayton had a cat,
So handsome and adorning,
She would be moll-rowing all the night,
And mewing in the morning.
Last Friday night she killed a bird,
To death old Moll did beat it,
She put it in the pot to fry,
And her son Bill did eat it.
From a foreign land has come a man—
He really is a wonder—
He can raise mutton, veal, and lamb,
And veal by steam and thunder.
He the world to please, cures cattle disease,
His skin is a blueish yellow,
He carries a wand to banish the bugs,
Is he not a curious fellow?
Friends, never fret, there will be yet,
Good things, plenty and stunning,
Good beef to sell, we’ll all live well,
For there’s right good times a coming.
Lots of bulls with horns are being born,
Large buffaloes are standing,
New milk and cream will be made by steam,
And in Ireland pigs are lambing.
Though butchers’ meat to the poor’s a treat,
Just look at Ned and Nelly,
How they strut along, so says my song,
With a flashy back and hungry belly.
Have patience, folks, though ’tis no joke,
Smell at the cook shop windows,
If you want relief, and have got no beef,
Have a jolly blow out of cinders.
H. Disley, Printer, 57, High Street, St. Giles, London.