AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF TRADE  
By a Relation of the Deceased.  
LONDON, Printed in the Year 1698   

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF TRADE.  

A Worthy Old Dame,  
Mother Trade was her Name,  
That had long lain in desperate State,  
Perceiving at last  
That all Hopes were passed,  
Contentedly bends to her Fate.   

And since she is gone,  
For the good Deeds sh'has done,  
As 'tis common in such like Cases,  
We can sure do no less,  
Than attend on her Hearse,  
With some Marks of Remorse on our Faces.   

There's her Granddaughter Art,  
Hath almost broke her Heart,  
For the Loss of so Faithful a Friend:  
She sits in her Chair,  
In the Depth of Despair,  
And seems to draw near towards her End.   

Industry her Sister,  
When she left her, she kissed her,  
And bid her for Ever Adieu;  
I must seek out a place,  
Where to alter the Case,  
For here I find 'twill not do.   

Her Cousin Invention,  
Seems too in Declension,  
And sits down by her, and cries,  
Oh! what shall I do?  
I have nought to pursue,  
Except it be Forging of Lies.   

But what is still worse,  
'Twould make a Man Curse,  
Her Landlord has seized all she had;  
He hath not allowed  
Her a Coffin and Shroud,  
Good People, e'nt this very sad?   

But the Beadle is gone,  
To see what can be done;  
'Tis hard she should lie aboveground,  
And yonder he comes,  
A biting his Thumbs;  
I'm afraid there's no help to be found.   

Then, come Mr. Beadle,  
Pray how look the People?  
What means this mighty Dejection?  
Why, Sir, the Folk look,  
Like our Constable's Book,  
That hath been these Three Years in Collection.   

I'm afraid, Mr. Blue Coat,  
That you are no True Coat,  
For all you look so precisely;  
Why, sure they will give,  
Since they wou'd'nt let her live,  
Somés small thing to Bury her wisely.   

Come, come, you must out,  
And try t'other bout,  
And pray put the thing to the Godly.  
What! Must the good Dame  
Lie unburied? For shame;  
This all o'er the World will look oddly.   

Why, Sir, if you'd hear me,  
You'd instantly clear me,  
I have been with abundance already,  
As God knows my Heart,  
I have acted my part,  
And was always to serve her most ready.   

I have been with the Merchant,  
Who you know is an Arch one,  
As also with the Baker and Brewer,  
I have been with the Banker,  
And with him that makes th' Anchor,  
With the Tailor, and almost all that knew her.   

Then pardon my Passion,  
'Twas my Zeal for my Nation,  
That urged me a little too fast:  
Come, prithee, go on,  
Let me know Man by Man,  
What betwixt you and each of them past.   

For the Merchant than first,  
When I told him, he Cursed,  
And Swore he expected it long:  
I'll be moving, says he,  
No, Faith, they shall see  
I'll ne'er stay to Starve with the Throng.   

My Debts lay an Embargo,  
Or I'd be my own Cargo,  
And Sail to the Land of Mogul;  
But when a Man Breaks,  
His Vessel then Leaks,  
And 'tis Danger to Swim in the Hull.   

But I'll Sell what I've got, Land,  
And even go to Scotland,  
I'll venture their Itch and their Lice;  
'Tis better, you know,  
Mr. Beadle, to go,  
Than to stay here to be eat up with Mice.   

And now for to give,  
I have nought, as I live,  
I was never so Poor in my Life;  
The Times are so Dead,  
I can hardly get Bread  
For myself, my Children, and Wife.   

Next I went to the Baker,  
And he was a Quaker,  
But a little inclined to the Papist,  
When I told him our Loss,  
He made on him a Cross,  
And Swore and Damned like an Atheist.   

Says he, Friend, be gone,  
For Money I've none,  
Go, prithee don't trouble my Shop;  
Don't tell me o'the Dead,  
I must live by my Bread,  
And so I was forced for to lope.   

When I came out o'the Door,  
Says I, you Son of a Whore,  
By your Forestall, Regrating, and Cheating,  
You have got an Estate,  
And that makes you prate,  
Take notice I own you a beating.   

I went hence to the Brewer,  
And there I thought sure  
I should meet with a little Relief;  
But, Faith, when I come,  
He looked so Damned grum,  
I said nothing, but stood like a Thief.   

It seems 'twas the Day  
He was doomed to go pay,  
Upon Ale and Beer, the Excise,  
Betwixt Taxes and Malt,  
Says he, I don't get Salt,  
And so should lay down, were I wise.   

At length I grew bold,  
And went to him, and told  
The long and short of the Thing,  
His Reply was, don't tease me,  
Pray Friend, I'd be easy,  
I must give not to her, but the King.   

Then next with the Banker  
I soon cast my Anchor,  
And told him the state of the Dame;  
His Answer was short,  
All he had lay at Court,  
And bid me return whence I came.   

To th' Anchor-smith next,  
Whom I found sadly vexed,  
At the News of a Merchant just Broke,  
I asked him for something,  
Who stood like a Dumb thing,  
At last scratched his Head, and thus spoke.   

Friend, did you but know,  
You'd ne'er press me so,  
And out he lugs a long Scroul;  
As God is to Save me,  
'Twixt Merchants and Navy,  
I'm utterly Ruined, by my Soul.   

Thence I trudged to the Tailor,  
That Wretch did bewail her,  
But Swore he had never a sauce;  
If I had it, said he,  
You should have something of me,  
But, Faith, I'm scarce worth a Louse.   

A Pox take all the Beaus,  
They must have their New ;  
I abhor those Fools in the Fashion:  
Your Knights, 'Squires, and Lords,  
That won't keep their Words,  
By Heavens, would there was none in the Nation.   

I went next to the Drapers,  
Found their Boys Cutting Capers,  
With abundance of Fiddles and Flutes;  
But when I asked them for Money,  
They stood staring upon me,  
As tho' they'd been so many Mutes.   

Said I, where is your Master?  
So I told the Disaster;  
To which answers one of the wisest,  
Sir, he seldom comes here,  
If he does, he with Beer,  
In a dreadful manner disguised is.   

From the Draper of Linen,  
(Which they Sell, and then Sin in)  
I went to their Brother of Wool;  
But he gave me a Joke,  
And said that his Poke  
Was as empty as his Skull.   

To the next that I went,  
Was Old Sir Cent. per Cent.  
That was sound Enriched by her Art;  
His Reply was in short,  
I have found better Sport,  
And done't value her Death of a Fart.   

Being thus in quandary,  
I met Apothecary,  
And told him the full of the Matter;  
He called me aside,  
And asked when she Died,  
And withal, what Doctors came at her.   

I'm afraid, with their Blisters,  
Their Purges and Clysters,  
And Issues in every part,  
They weakened her so much,  
She could not stand the touch,  
I'm afraid on't with all my Heart.   

If her Head had been shaved,  
She might have been Saved,  
Had she taken a Vomit withal;  
But if she's Dead, 'tis in vain  
Any more to complain,  
Here's a Couple of Pence, 'tis my All.   

I marched next to the Pressers,  
And from him to the Mercers,  
Where the Foreman stood Combing his Wig,  
At the fur-end o'th' Shop,  
The Lads were Whipping Top,  
In the middle one Dancing a Jig.   

You must know this Spruce Cit,  
Laid a Claim to some Wit,  
And to show it, took a Wise for her Beauty;  
But I saw by his Face,  
There was something i'th' Case,  
I'm afraid sh'had late been on Duty.   

Well, without long Petition,  
I told the Condition,  
He gave me this Answer in brief,  
I lament the good Dame,  
And speak it with Shame,  
But have nothing to give for Relief.   

Being Devilishly vexed,  
To a Wretch I went next,  
That was Selling of Buttons and Thread;  
But had you been there,  
You'd have said, I dare Swore,  
He was more fit to be tied in his Bed.   

When I told him, Mother Trade  
Was gone to the Shade,  
He Swore a great Oath, why do'u name her,  
I have just Bought a Horse,  
And I'll out for a Purse,  
I'd almost venture Hanging to shame her.   

I thought 'twas no boot,  
To say more to the Brute,  
And so to the Saddler I pack,  
Where I found him a Swearing,  
Stamping, Grinning, and Staring,  
He had scarce got One to his Back.   

Says he, these Commanders,  
By their Warring in Flanders,  
Have so Cursedly run in my Debt,  
've scarce left me a Farthing,  
To keep me from Starving,  
Prithee, Friend, don't urge me to Fret.   

I went then to the Grocers,  
To the Braziers and Throsters,  
To the Binder's and Sellers of Books;  
But for the Success,  
I could presently guests,  
By their Goods in their Shops, and their Looks.   

I went next to the Blacksmith,  
The Silver and Jack-smith,  
And so called on a Perfumer,  
But he like a Rogue,  
Tho' the Chief Trade in vogue,  
Bid the Devil in Hell consume her.   

I went to the Printer,  
The Victualler and Vintner,  
But there finding nothing but Chalk,  
To the Weavers I went,  
But being near Day of Rent,  
They were all moved, their Landlords to balk.   

But, Sir, 'tis too long  
To repeat the whole Throng,  
I have been with most Trades in the City,  
And said what I could,  
But 'twould all do no good,  
They're too Poor to be wrought into Pity.   

Having finished my Range,  
From Temple-Bar to the Change,  
I thought of a New Expedition,  
I was resolved to go,  
As far as Soho,  
And try of French and Dutch the Condition.   

And yet by the way,  
I made a short stay  
At the Temple, if you know the place, Sir,  
On a Lawyer I called,  
That oft Client had mauled,  
And told him the state of my Case, Sir.   

He asked me, from whence  
I had that Impudence,  
To expect any Goodness from him;  
Says he, Sirrah, you know  
We have nothing to do,  
But to Cheat, Drink, Whore, and go Trim.   

Then Mr. Attorney,  
Since it don't concern ye  
I'll go to the Jobbler of Stocks;  
But he'd Jobbed so long,  
As I found by his Song,  
That he could give her nought but the Pox.   

I went next to the Priest,  
But he Swore, 'twas a Jest  
To ask any Charity there,  
For he'd many Children to get,  
With much Cost, Pains, and Sweat,  
Besides something for Puddings and Beer.   

And now for Monsieur,  
Who before I came near,  
I suppose, had smelled out the Matter;  
He makes two or three Cringes,  
As if he hung upon Hinges,  
And thus he began for to Flatter,   

Begar, me and Minheir,  
Been very sorry to hear  
Of the Death of the English Trade;  
This be one good Nation,  
Upon my Salvation,  
As ever me tinke dat God made.   

Here I put him in mind  
Of what I designed,  
And he very briskly replied,  
De French and de Dutch,  
Dat love her so much,  
Will take Care that she shall be supplied.   

The Frenchman, Begar,  
Will take very good Care,  
To lay her so deep she shan't rise;  
For if once she should,  
Dat would be no very good,  
If the English should open their Eyes.   

The Beadle here ends  
The Tale he intends,  
And so we march on to the Grave;  
But when we come nigh,  
There was such an Outcry,  
Good Lord, how the People did Rave.   

There was Gun-smiths, and Cutlers,  
And Founders, and Sutler's,  
And Coach-makers a great many,  
There was Cobblers, and Tinkers,  
Those Honest Ale-drinkers,  
And Shoemakers too more than any.   

There was some of all Trades,  
Even Rogues, Thiefs, and Jades,  
All howling and yelping about her,  
Such throwing away Snot,  
Drivel, Piss, and what not,  
That in short I wished myself out, Sir.   

Had you been next,  
When Mr. Spintext  
Began to hold forth to the People,  
You'd have Swore that the Jar  
Had been louder by far,  
Than that 'twixt the Change and Bow-Steeple.   

And then for the Sound  
When they put her i'th' Ground,  
What Mortal was able to bear it?  
For my part, I confess,  
I got out of the press,  
And left those that liked it, to hear it.   

But now to conclude,  
I think 'twould be rude,  
Without saying something o'th' Dame;  
In short, we shall miss her,  
But you know how 'tis, Sir,  
And let those that deserve't have the Blame.   
FINIS.