The Dreadnoughts - 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's been a French war, so the cows have no grass."

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, me 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 your pint is all covered in froth.

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.

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 he makes it go down
He declares it's a full weight yet it lacks half a pound.

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.

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 is all covered in grist

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time

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 backsides are bare,
No wonder we've reason to curse and to swear

Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time

Written by:
Traditional Music

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid, Songtrust Ave

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