An Original Collection of Songs sung at the Theatres Royal, Public Concerts &c. &c. By W. T. Moncrieff |
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LONDON ADULTERATIONS:
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 | An Original Collection of Songs |  |
LONDON ADULTERATIONS:
OR, ROGUES IN GRAIN. &c.
London tradesmen, 'tis plain, at no roguery stop,
They adulterate all they've in warehouse and shop!
You must buy what they sell, and they'll sell what they please,
For they would, if they could, sell the moon for green cheese.
Sing tantarantara, what rogues.
They adulterate all they've in warehouse and shop!
You must buy what they sell, and they'll sell what they please,
For they would, if they could, sell the moon for green cheese.
Sing tantarantara, what rogues.
Imitation, 'tis well known, is now all the rage,
Every thing imitated is, in this rare age;
Tea, Coffee, Beer, Butter, Gin, Milk—and in brief,
No doubt they'll soon imitate mutton and beef.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
Every thing imitated is, in this rare age;
Tea, Coffee, Beer, Butter, Gin, Milk—and in brief,
No doubt they'll soon imitate mutton and beef.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Grocer sells ash leaves and sloe leaves for tea,
Ting'd with Dutch pink and verdigris just like Bohea.
What Sloe poison means, sirs, I quickly found out,
We shall to a T soon be poison'd, no doubt.
Sing tantarantara, &c
Ting'd with Dutch pink and verdigris just like Bohea.
What Sloe poison means, sirs, I quickly found out,
We shall to a T soon be poison'd, no doubt.
Sing tantarantara, &c
102
Other Grocers for pepper sell trash call'd P.D:
And burnt horse-beans for Coffee—how can such things be?
Now I really do think, those who make such a slip,
And treat us like horses, deserve a horsewhip!
Sing tantarantara, &c.
And burnt horse-beans for Coffee—how can such things be?
Now I really do think, those who make such a slip,
And treat us like horses, deserve a horsewhip!
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Milkman, although he is honest he vows,
Milks his pump night and morn, quite as oft as his cows;
Claps you plenty of chalk in your score—what a bilk?
And, egad, claps you plenty of chalk in your milk.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
Milks his pump night and morn, quite as oft as his cows;
Claps you plenty of chalk in your score—what a bilk?
And, egad, claps you plenty of chalk in your milk.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Baker will swear all his bread's made of flour,
But just mention alum, you'll make him turn sour;
His ground bunes and pebbles turn men skin and bone,
We ask him for bread, and he gives us a stone.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
But just mention alum, you'll make him turn sour;
His ground bunes and pebbles turn men skin and bone,
We ask him for bread, and he gives us a stone.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Butcher puffs up his tough mutton for lamb,
And oft for South-down sells an old mountain ram;
Bleeds poor worn-out cows, to pass off for white veal,
For which he deserves to die by his own steel.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
And oft for South-down sells an old mountain ram;
Bleeds poor worn-out cows, to pass off for white veal,
For which he deserves to die by his own steel.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
A slippery rogue is the Cheesemonger, zounds!
For with kitchen-stuff oft he his butter compounds;
His fresh eggs are laid over the water, we know,
For which, faith! he over the water should go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
For with kitchen-stuff oft he his butter compounds;
His fresh eggs are laid over the water, we know,
For which, faith! he over the water should go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Brewer a Chemist is, that is quite clear,
For we soon find no hops have hopp'd into his beer;
'Stead of malt he from drugs brews his porter and swipes,
So no wonder that we have so oft the drug-gripes.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
For we soon find no hops have hopp'd into his beer;
'Stead of malt he from drugs brews his porter and swipes,
So no wonder that we have so oft the drug-gripes.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
The Tobacconist smokes us with short cut of weeds,
And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds;
With snuff of ground-glass and dust oft we are gull'd,
And for serving our noses so, his should be pull'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds;
With snuff of ground-glass and dust oft we are gull'd,
And for serving our noses so, his should be pull'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
103
The Wine-merchant that we abroad may not roam,
With sloe-juice and brandy makes our Port at home:
The Distillers their gin have with vitrol fill'd,
So 'tis clear they're in roguery double distill'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
With sloe-juice and brandy makes our Port at home:
The Distillers their gin have with vitrol fill'd,
So 'tis clear they're in roguery double distill'd.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
Thus we rogues have in in-grain and in tea too, that's clear,
But don't think I suppose we have any rogues here;
Present company's always excepted you know,
So wishing all rogues their deserts, I must go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
But don't think I suppose we have any rogues here;
Present company's always excepted you know,
So wishing all rogues their deserts, I must go.
Sing tantarantara, &c.
| An Original Collection of Songs | |