No wonder that butter's a shilling a pound,
See them 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.
And it's here's to our landlord, I must bring him in,
He charges tuppence a pint yet he think it no sin.
When he do bring it in, oh 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 it's here's to our butcher, I must bring him in,
He charges four pence a pound yet he think it no sin.
Slaps his thumb on the scales and he makes it go down.
He declares it's a full weight but 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 it's here's to our baker, I must bring him in,
He charges ha'penny a loaf and he think 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.
So it's here's to our tailor who skimps on our clothes,
And here's to the cobbler who pitches our toes,
For our belly's are 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.