An Alarm To The Meal Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Ye mealy mouth'd mobbers, attend to my song,
Whose plunder brings plenty of blessings along.
No gospel or law starv'd people regard,
For hunger thro' stone-walls a way hath prepar'd.
The bounteous crop that late grac'd each plain,
By Forestallers, dam'nd rascals, the worst of all men,
Is seiz'd ev'ry boll, not one peck to be found,
Till their profits are rais'd to ten shillings per pound.
With luxury pamper'd the meal-mongers ride;
Their profits are huge and their consciences wide;
The cry of the orphan no pity can draw,
Nor the gulph of damnation keep villains in awe.
To starve a whole kingdom in midst of great store,
Is what they now do, and have oft done before;
With specious pretences they cover their fraud,
To famish a country make poets run mad;
Heav'n thus long provok'd, will vengeance pour down,
Upon (shall I name them) the rogues of our town;
For with-holding its blessings on mankind to flow,
And abusing the plenty which God did bestow.
Ye tradesmen enraged, who ventur'd your lives,
For meat to your children and your loving wives;
Restrain now your passion, let good laws take place,
For mobbing, tho' useful, is but a disgrace.
O cheaters, take warning by John Muat's fate!
Hear the whispers of conscience before 'tis too late.
For wealth gain'd by wickedness, vengeance, will bring;
Your gold will be useless, when your neck's in a string.
Nor would I insure you, for all your fine dust,
For if you persist in a trade that's unjust,
The needy will curse you, your Maker will frown,
Your mem'ry will stink, and your soul it will drown.
At Leith, too, thou villain, repent and give o'er,
Consider what crime 'tis the poor to devour;
The grand royal sage, who rul'd in the east,
Says with-holders of corn will be damned at least.
Medina the painter for a firlot of meal,
Will lend thee his bible, this truth to reveal;
Or if he refuse thee, Claudero himsel'
Will lend thee his scripture to save thee from hell.
This wholesome advice I beg you'll attend,
For better late thrive than never to mend:
Thy country, injur'd by rascals like thee,
Will make dire example on many curs'd tree,
To the terror of other ingrossers of corn,
Who buy up the victual before it is shorn.
Your factors and clerks, with riches and pride,
Abroad in their coaches are able to ride,
While thousands of children are meagre and pale,
Whose parents are ruin'd by the dearth of your meal.
Ye monsters of mankind, what 'vaileth your store,
When the practice of virtue you leave and give o'er?
Believe ye the gospel, or 'postolic creed?
The devil gets villains, as soon as they're dead:
And as for your lives, they will not be long,
So therefore I pray you give ear to my song,
Be honest, hear conscience if any you have,
Or this dire inscription shall stand on your grave.