%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> Alas poore Trades-men what shall we do? / OR, / LONDONS Complaint through badnesse of Trading, / For work being scant, their substance is fadeing. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1646-1646 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/16/2018 36028

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R227914 2 Hallow my Fancy Whether Wilt thou goe? [unknown] Hallow My Fancy Whither Wilt Thou Go? To the same Tune [unknown] To the Same Tune AMidst of melancholly trading, / out of my store, COrn God be thank't is not scant yet, / and yet for ought we know Alas poore Trades-men / What shall we doe. Alas poore trades-men / What shall we doe. Manchester Central Library Blackletter Ballads Editor none none none none Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 38 Alas poore Trades-men what shall we do? / OR, / LONDONS Complaint through badnesse of Trading, / For work being scant, their substance is fadeing. Alas poor Tradesmen what shall we do? OR, LONDON'S Complaint through badness of Trading, For work being scant, their substance is fading. 1646-1646 Francis Grove

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<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">Alas poore Trades-men what shall we do?</hi></seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic"><hi rend="bold">OR,</hi></hi></seg> <seg n="3" rend="left"><hi rend="bold"><hi rend="italic">LONDONS</hi> Complaint through badnesse of Trading,</hi></seg> <seg n="4" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">For work being scant, their substance is fadeing.</hi></seg> <lb/> <seg n="5" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">To the Tune of, <hi rend="bold">Hallow my Fancy whether wilt thou goe?</hi></hi></seg>
AMidst of melancholly trading, out of my store, I found my substance fading all my houshold viewing, which to ruine Falls daily more and more: Forth then I went And walkt about the City, Where I beheld What mov'd my heart with pity: And being home returned I thought upon this ditty, Alas poor Trades-men What shall we doe. Shops, Shops, Shops, I discry now with Windows ready shut, They'l neither sell nor buy now, Whilst our Lords and Gentry, are ith Countrey, the more is our griefe god-wott: Woe to the causers Of this seperation Which bred the civill Wars in this Nation. It is the greatest cause Of Londons long vacation, Alas poore Trades-men What shall we doe.
Forts in the fields new erected where multitudes do run, To see the same effected: All their judgement spending, and commending the same to be well done: But yet I feare, Our digging and our ramming, Scarse can defend The poorest sort from famine, For all the rich may have As much as they can cramme in, Alas poore trades-men What shall we doe. One may perhaps have large whil'st thou and more complaines Oppressed with their charge: All this care and toyling, with for moyling, affords but little gains: In hopes of peace Ourselves have deluded, That on our store So far we have intruded, Except a happy peace Amongst us be concluded, Alas poore trades-men What shall we doe.
<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">The second Part, To the same Tune.</hi></seg>
COrn God be thank't is not scant yet, and yet for ought 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 youl not beleeve me, You'l finde it when you try it, Alas poore trades-men What, etc. Whilst we were wel imploied, and need not for to play, We plenty then enjoyed: Every weeke 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 blest us. But since the civill wars Begun for to molest us, Alas poore trades-men What, etc.
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 bin begun, For where a Kingdom Is of itselfe divided, And people knows not By whom they should be gui-ded It is too great a matter By me to be decided. Alas poore trades-men What, etc. 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 blest increase. Our Gracious King, The Lord preserve and blesse Him With safe return To them that long do misse him, And send him to remain With them that well do wish him, Alas poor trades-men What shall we doe.
FINIS LONDON, Printed for Francis Grove.