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OR,
Merry Remarks upon Exchange Alley Bubbles.

To a New Tune call'd The Grand Elixir, or the Philosopher's Stone discovered.

lyrics

IN London stands a famous pile, And near that pile an Alley,
Where merry crowds for riches toil, And wisdom stoops to folly.
Here, sad and joyful, high and low, Court Fortune for her graces;
And as she smiles or frowns, they show Their gestures and grimaces.

’Tis said that alchemists of old Could turn a brazen kettle, Or leaden cistern into gold;
That noble tempting metal. But (if it here may be allowed,
To bring in great with small things) Our cunning South Sea like a god,
Turns nothing into all things.

O, Britain! bless thy present state! Thou only happy nation!
So oddly rich, so madly great, Since Bubbles came in fashion.
Our South Sea ships have golden shrouds, They bring us wealth, ’tis granted:
But lodge their treasure in the clouds, To hide it till it’s wanted.

A race of men, who, t’ other day, Lay crushed beneath disasters,
Are now, by Stock, brought into play, And made our lords and masters.
But should our South Sea Babel fall, What numbers would be frowning;
The losers then must ease their gall By hanging, or by drowning.

Five hundred millions, notes and bonds, Our Stocks are worth in value:
But neither lie in goods, or lands, Or money, let me tell ye.
Yet though our foreign trade is lost, Of mighty wealth we vapour;
When all the riches that we boast Consist of scraps of paper.

credits

from Tyburnia - A Radical History Of 600 Years Of Public Execution, released May 29, 2015

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antigen records Ipswich, UK

DIY record label / niche interest vanity project, still operating out of a bedroom on a council estate in Ipswich.

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