THE
KNIFE GRINDER.

A NEW SONG.

Printed and sold by J. Jennings, No. 15, Water Lane,
Fleet-street.

THERE's Grinders enough Sir, in every degree,
From jewel-deck'd great, to low poverty;
From jewel, &c.
Whatever the fation it sharpens the sense,
And the wheel goes round to wind in the pence,
Whatever the fation, &c.

CHORUS.

Master Grinders enough at the helm you may find,
Tho' I'm but a journeyman—Knives and Razors to
grind.

Whatever the statefman may think of himself
He turns fortune's wheel in puruit of the pelf,
He grinds back and edge, sir, his ends to obtain,
And his country may flare up,—his sole view is but
gain.

Master Grinders, &c.

The rich grind the poor is a laying of old,
The merchant, the tradesman, we need not be told,
Whether Pagan, Mahometan, Christian you be,
There's grinders of all sorts of every degree.

Master Grinders, &c.

The patriot, with zeal animated, declares,
The certain he'll draw—and display the state players;
He is a strange Grinder, to some 'tis well known,
And they're mightily gall'd by the gist of the stone.

Master Grinders, &c.

I too am a grinder, but what, sir, of that;
I am but in tafte since I copy the Great;
To be, firs, ingenuous, I'll tell you my mind,
'Tis what I can get makes me willing to Grind.

Master Grinders, &c.