The spinners of Manchester loudly complain
How toilsome their labour, how trifling their gain;
The hatters, the dyers, the weavers also,
Are starving with hunger you very well know.
         Derry Down, &c.

We fondly did hope when the wars were all o'er,
That hunger and thirst we should never feel more,
But woeful experience shews us the reverse,
That the peace only served to complete our distress.

The widows' salt tears often dropp'd for the dead,
May now flow afresh for the loss of her bread;
Her fatherless children are starving also,
Is this a fit recompence, tell me, or no!

An adequate price for our labour we want,
But this our proud gentry never will grant;
So far they from striving our wrongs to redress,
They laugh at our sufferings, and mock our distress.

Your cringing, soliciting, never will do,
Too oft it has proved unsuccessful to you;
I could tell you a way to relieve your distress,
But I can't bring the words in to metre my verse.

But a word of advice I would give to you all,
Let no party spirit your bosoms enthral;
Religious divisions, forget them likewise,
Unite in the cause, and you're sure of the prize.

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