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