The Rigs of the Time
anonimo
Originale | La versione di Shirley Collins, dal disco “The Sweet Primeroses”, 1967 |
THE RIGS OF THE TIME No wonder that butter be a shilling a pound, Seeing the rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Oh alas! There's a French war, and the cows have no grass.” Singing, honesty's all out of fashion These are the rigs of the time, Time, my boys These are the rigs of the time. 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. 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 the very best plan that I can find Is to puff them all off in a high gale of wind And when they get up, the cloud it will burst, And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first. Singing, honesty's all out of fashion These are the rigs of the time, Time, my boys These are the rigs of the time. | RIGS OF THE TIME No wonder that butter's a shilling a pound, See those rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Bon alas! There is a French war, and the cows have no grass.” Chorus (after each verse): 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 here's to our landlord, I must bring him in, Charges tuppence a pint and yet thinks it no sin. When he do bring it in, the measure is short And the top of the pint is all covered in froth. And here's to the butcher, I must bring him in, Charges four pence a pound and yet thinks it no sin. Slaps his thumb on the scales and makes it go down He declares it's full weight yet it lacks half a pound. And here's to the baker, I must bring him in, Charges a ha'penny a loaf and yet thinks it no sin. When he do bring it in, it's no bigger than your fist And the top of the loaf has popped off with the yeast. Now here's to the tailor who skims with our clothes, And here's to the cobbler who pinches our toes, Our belly's all empty, our bodies are bare, No wonder we've reason to curse and to swear. Now the very best thing that I could find Is to toss them all up in a high gale of wind. When the wind it do blow, the balloon it would burst, And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first. |