The Rich FARMER'S Ruin Who Murmured at the Plenty of the Seasons, because h● could not Sell Corn so Dear as his Covetous hear● desired.  
To the Tune of, Why are my Eyes-still flowing, As it is played on the Violin.  
This may be Printed, R. ●  
 
 

A We ●thy Man a Farmer, who had Corn great store  
Yet he was Cruel always to the Poor;  
And as the truth of him does very well appear,  
He thought he ne'er sold his Corn too dear;  
As to the Market one day he did go  
Finding the Prizes of Corn to be low;  
Sa●d he, before I will sell aught of mine,  
I'll carry it home for to fatten my Swine.   

In former days, as I can make it well appear,  
By my own Farm. I got hundreds a Year;  
I sold for Ten the Corn that will not now fetch Five,  
Is this the way for a Farmer to Thrive?  
Yet I will now sell no more at this Price,  
But am resolved to stay for a Rise:  
Thus he resolved to hoard up his store,  
That he might then make a Prey of the Poor.   

Another Farmer likewise then was standing by,  
Who when he heard him he thus did reply;  
You have a Farm and likewise Land, which is your ow●  
What cause have you then to make this sad moan?  
I that have nothing but what I do Rent,  
With Years of plenty, rejoice in content:  
Give him the praise who such plenty does send,  
Left when you murmur you highly offend.   

Said the Miser, what tho' I have got house and Lan●  
Yet I would have you now well understand,  
I am not free to see the wasting of it all,  
And after that into Poverty fall:  
Have we not reason, alas! to Complain,  
To see the Cheapness of all sorts of Grain?  
If it continue, as sure as the Sun,  
I shall be ruined and clearly undone.   

I, but Neighbour, pray tell me wherefore do you gr●e●  
Does not a plenty the poor Men relieve?  
Here do I find, had you your will in sel●ing Grain,  
Then m●ght the Poor soon have cause to complain:  
For you are cruel, most harsh and severe,  
And think you can never sell it too dear:  
Why says the other, what's poor Men to me?  
I'll keep my Corn till one Peck will fetch three.   

Then home he went, and bitterly he did repine,  
And in his Substance he soon did decline;  
For he was soon as Poor as any Man alive,  
For after this he by no means cou●d Thrive:  
As he was walking one day round his Ground,  
His House was Robbed of five hundred pound;  
Yet this was but the beginning of Woe,  
For in two Years he was brought very low.   

His Corn did waste, and many of his Cattle died,  
Also great Losses and Crosses beside;  
Both House and Land through perfect need, at length he sold,  
Nothing but Ruin he then could behold:  
Tho' all was blasted and clearly decayed.  
Yet none would pity him, but thus they said:  
Seeing the Poor he did thus Circumvent,  
This is no more than a just Punishment.   

Like one forlorn and desolate, he then did Roam,  
Having no Diet, Apparel, or Home,  
But his poor Life he ended Lodging in a Barn,  
From whence all Covetous Farmers may learn,  
How to give thanks for a Plentiful Year,  
And not to murmur that Corn is not dear:  
For those that shall do it most highly offend,  
Think of this Farmer's Unprosperous End.   
FINIS.   

Printed for I. Back, at the Black Boy on London-Bridge, near the Drawbridge.