Alas poor tradesmen what shall we do.  
OR, London's Complaint through badness of Trading, For work being scant, their substance is fading.  
To the Tune of, Hallow my Fancy Whether Wilt thou good.  
 
 

A Midst of melancholy trading,  
out of my store,  
I found my substance fading  
all my haushold viewing,  
which to ruin  
Falls daily more and more:  
Forth than I went  
And walked about the City,  
Where I beheld  
What moved my heart with pity:  
And being home returned  
I thought upon this ditty,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What shall we do.   

Shops, Shops, Shops, I descry now  
With Windows ready shut,  
They'll neither sell nor buy new,  
Whilst our L●rds and Gentry,  
are i'th' country,  
the more is our grief god-wot:  
Woe to the causers  
Of this separation  
Which bred the civil  
Wars in this Nation.  
It is the greatest cause  
Of London's long vacation.  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What shall we do.   

Forts in the fields new erected  
Where multitudes do run,  
To sóe the same effected:  
All their judgement spending,  
and commending  
the same to be well done:  
But yet I fear,  
Our digging and our ramming,  
Scarce can defend  
The poorest sort from famine,  
For all the rich may have  
As much as they can cram in,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What shall we do.   

One may perhaps have large  
Whilst thousand more complaine●  
Oppressed with their charge:  
All this care and toiling,  
with for moiling,  
affords but little gains:  
In hopes of peace  
Our elves have deluded,  
That on our store  
So far we have intruded,  
Except a happy peace  
Amongst us be concluded,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What shall we do.   

The second Part,  
To the same Tune.  
 

COrn God be thanked is not scant yet,  
and yet for aught we know  
The poorer sort may want it.  
In the midst of plenty,  
more than twenty  
have found it to be so:  
For if they have not  
Money for to buy it,  
The richer sort they  
Have hearts for to deny it,  
If that you'll not believe me,  
You'll find it when you try it,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What, &c.   

Whilst we were well employed,  
and need not for to play,  
We plenty then enjoyed:  
Every week a Noble  
clear without trouble,  
is better than eight pence a day:  
Yet on the Sabbath day  
We used to rest us,  
And went to'th Church  
To pray, and God hath blessed us.  
But since the civil wars  
Begun for to molest us,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What, &c.   

All things so out of order,  
the Father kills the Son,  
Yet this they count no murder  
Wars are necessary,  
oh no, but tarry,  
I wish they'd not been begun,  
For where a Kingdom  
Is of itself divided,  
And people knows not  
By whom they should be guided  
It is too great a matter  
By me to be decided.  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What, &c.   

Now to conclude my ditty,  
the Lord send England peace  
And plenty in this City:  
Grant the land may flourish,  
long for to nourish  
us with her blessed increase.  
Our Gracious King,  
The Lord preserve and bless Him  
With safe return  
To them that long do miss him,  
And send him to remain  
With them that well do wish him,  
Alas poor tradesmen  
What shall we do.    
FINIS   

LONDON, Printed for Francis Grove.