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The Rigs of the Time

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OriginaleLa 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.


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