Poem by Isabel Pagan

A New Song on the Times

Tune—Of a' the airts the wind can blaw

Let Britain's subjects now rejoice,
Since peace and plenty's come,
It is not drink nor music's noise,
Nor beating of a drum.

But thankfulness it is requir'd,
With humble heart sincere,
Since Providence has been so kind,
As take pity on the poor.

Ye know its two long years and more,
The poor's been sore oppress'd,
And dealers who had ought to sell,
They try'd who could get most.

Rejoice the markets has come down,
Half price they will not get,
Extortioners may join and mourn,
None of them I'll except.

Ye justices and gentlemen,
Ye sure have a great charge,
In time of need unto the poor,
Your charity enlarge.

If widow, or the fatherless,
Goes hungry from your door,
You scarce a blessing can expect,
If you neglect the poor.

And what you give, take my advice,
Give cheerfully away,
You'll get it sevenfold restor'd,
I hope, some other day.

When world's trash is of no use,
Will stand you in no stead,
Nor knife and fork at beef or pork,
At any table head.

For my part I am hearty still,
And ne'er sought charity;
But I'll regard them while I live,
That has been kind to me.

I cheerfully enjoy myself,
Never frets for world's wealth,
Contentment still shall be a feast,
While I enjoy my health.

1. Now Once a Young Man Courted Me
2. There Came a Bold Hero of Late from the West
3. Aughlen Spring
4. The Duke of Gordon's Fencibles
5. Account of the Author’s Lifetime

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