THE RIGS OF THE TIME
Traditional (Irish)


O, 'tis of an old butcher, I must bring him in.
He charge two shillings a pound, and thinks it no sin.
Slaps his thumb on the scale-weights and makes them go down,
He swears it's good weight yet it wants half a pound. Singing..

chorus:   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 next is a baker, I must bring him in.
He charge fourpence a loaf and thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, is not bigger than your fist,
And the top of the loaf is popped off with the ye'st, Singing..

chorus:

No wonder the butter be a shilling a pound
See the little farmer's daughters, how they ride up and down.
If you ask them the reason, they'll say: "Bone', alas,
There's a French war and the cows have no grass, Singing..

chorus:

O the next is a publican, I must bring him in.
He charge fourpence 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..

chorus:

Here's next to the tailor who skimps with our clothes,
And next the shoemaker who pinches our toes.
We've nought in our bellies, our bodies are bare
No wonder we've reason to curse and to swear, Singing..

chorus:

Now the very best plan that I can find
Is to pop them all off in a high gale of wynd
And when they get up, the cloud it will bu'st
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first, singing..

chorus: