No wonder that butter be a shilling a pound,
Seeing the rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down
If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Oh alas!
There's a French war, and the cows have no grass.”
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
O the next is a publican, I must bring him in,
He charges four pence a quart - he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, the measure is short:
The top of the pot is popped off with the froth.
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Now the very best plan that I can find
Is to puff them all off in a high gale of wind
And when they get up, the cloud it will burst,
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first.
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Seeing the rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down
If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Oh alas!
There's a French war, and the cows have no grass.”
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
O the next is a publican, I must bring him in,
He charges four pence a quart - he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, the measure is short:
The top of the pot is popped off with the froth.
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Now the very best plan that I can find
Is to puff them all off in a high gale of wind
And when they get up, the cloud it will burst,
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first.
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/4/25 - 21:40
Language: English
RIGS OF THE TIME
No wonder that butter's a shilling a pound,
See those rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down
If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Bon alas!
There is a French war, and the cows have no grass.”
Chorus (after each verse):
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Now here's to our landlord, I must bring him in,
Charges tuppence a pint and yet thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, the measure is short
And the top of the pint is all covered in froth.
And here's to the butcher, I must bring him in,
Charges four pence a pound and yet thinks it no sin.
Slaps his thumb on the scales and makes it go down
He declares it's full weight yet it lacks half a pound.
And here's to the baker, I must bring him in,
Charges a ha'penny a loaf and yet thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, it's no bigger than your fist
And the top of the loaf has popped off with the yeast.
Now here's to the tailor who skims with our clothes,
And here's to the cobbler who pinches our toes,
Our belly's all empty, our bodies are bare,
No wonder we've reason to curse and to swear.
Now the very best thing that I could find
Is to toss them all up in a high gale of wind.
When the wind it do blow, the balloon it would burst,
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first.
No wonder that butter's a shilling a pound,
See those rich farmers' daughters how they ride up and down
If you ask them the reason they'll say, “Bon alas!
There is a French war, and the cows have no grass.”
Chorus (after each verse):
Singing, honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time,
Time, my boys
These are the rigs of the time.
Now here's to our landlord, I must bring him in,
Charges tuppence a pint and yet thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, the measure is short
And the top of the pint is all covered in froth.
And here's to the butcher, I must bring him in,
Charges four pence a pound and yet thinks it no sin.
Slaps his thumb on the scales and makes it go down
He declares it's full weight yet it lacks half a pound.
And here's to the baker, I must bring him in,
Charges a ha'penny a loaf and yet thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, it's no bigger than your fist
And the top of the loaf has popped off with the yeast.
Now here's to the tailor who skims with our clothes,
And here's to the cobbler who pinches our toes,
Our belly's all empty, our bodies are bare,
No wonder we've reason to curse and to swear.
Now the very best thing that I could find
Is to toss them all up in a high gale of wind.
When the wind it do blow, the balloon it would burst,
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/4/25 - 21:41
Language: English
La versione di Sandy Denny, da un concerto del 1972
RIGS OF THE TIME
It's of an old butcher, I must bring him in.
Charges four pence a pound, and thinks it no sin.
Puts his thumb on the scale which makes it go down,
And swears it's good weight yet it lacks half a pound.
All sing...
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty 's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time
Now it's next to the baker, I must bring him in.
Charges tuppence a loaf and he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, is not bigger than your fist,
And the top of the loaf is all covered in yeast
All sing...
Now it's next to the landlord, well I must bring him in.
Charges tuppence a pint and he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, now the measure it is short
And the top of the pot it is all covered in froth.
All sing...
Now the best of all plans that comes to me mind
Is to set them all off in a high gale of wind
And when they go up, oh, the cloud it will burst
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first
Singing...
It's of an old butcher, I must bring him in.
Charges four pence a pound, and thinks it no sin.
Puts his thumb on the scale which makes it go down,
And swears it's good weight yet it lacks half a pound.
All sing...
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty 's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time
Now it's next to the baker, I must bring him in.
Charges tuppence a loaf and he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, is not bigger than your fist,
And the top of the loaf is all covered in yeast
All sing...
Now it's next to the landlord, well I must bring him in.
Charges tuppence a pint and he thinks it no sin.
When he do bring it in, now the measure it is short
And the top of the pot it is all covered in froth.
All sing...
Now the best of all plans that comes to me mind
Is to set them all off in a high gale of wind
And when they go up, oh, the cloud it will burst
And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first
Singing...
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/4/25 - 21:41
Language: English
RIGS OF THE TIME
No wonder that butter's nigh on a quid a pound,
See the rich corporate farmers how they ride up and down.
You ask them the reason, they'll say: “Bonny lass,
It's the Commission in Brussels have taxed the cows' grass.”
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty's all out of fashion,
These are the rigs of the time.
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.
Now Home Secretaries, I must bring 'em in
With their society obedient at every turn
At picking the Peach, pulls Towers to the ground,
Who needs the NF when there's SPG around.
Now absentee landlords, I must bring 'em in
With their sky-high rents and they think it no sin.
Their ceilings fall in, the walls run with slime,
But they're for blacks or for Irish so no-one really minds.
No wonder that butter's nigh on a quid a pound,
See the rich corporate farmers how they ride up and down.
You ask them the reason, they'll say: “Bonny lass,
It's the Commission in Brussels have taxed the cows' grass.”
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty's all out of fashion,
These are the rigs of the time.
Time, me boys,
These are the rigs of the time.
Now Home Secretaries, I must bring 'em in
With their society obedient at every turn
At picking the Peach, pulls Towers to the ground,
Who needs the NF when there's SPG around.
Now absentee landlords, I must bring 'em in
With their sky-high rents and they think it no sin.
Their ceilings fall in, the walls run with slime,
But they're for blacks or for Irish so no-one really minds.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/4/25 - 21:42
Language: English
RIGS OF THE TIME
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time
Ay me boys,
These are the rigs of the time
The Transnational companies are running the show
Unaccountable, faceless ones, nobody knows
Richer than countries, their cause they advance
They pull the strings that make politics dance
The private utilities, I must bring them in
A private monopoly is guaranteed to win
They charge what they like, give you cause for much grief
And the customer watchdogs have more gums than teeth
The huge hypermarkets on the outskirts of town
Convenience is up, and the prices are down
But the cost of this comfort is not set at nought
It's all the small business in the bankruptcy court.
The cool high street clothes stores are part of the scene
Neat designer labels, a marketing man's dream
The young people buy them, and here's the surprise
They pay extra for logos, which in turn advertise.
Is Diana an angel, is Charles a cad?
It's a media circus gone totally mad
The never ending rehash of their private lives
And who knows the truth between husbands and wives?
Chorus (after each verse):
Honesty's all out of fashion
These are the rigs of the time
Ay me boys,
These are the rigs of the time
The Transnational companies are running the show
Unaccountable, faceless ones, nobody knows
Richer than countries, their cause they advance
They pull the strings that make politics dance
The private utilities, I must bring them in
A private monopoly is guaranteed to win
They charge what they like, give you cause for much grief
And the customer watchdogs have more gums than teeth
The huge hypermarkets on the outskirts of town
Convenience is up, and the prices are down
But the cost of this comfort is not set at nought
It's all the small business in the bankruptcy court.
The cool high street clothes stores are part of the scene
Neat designer labels, a marketing man's dream
The young people buy them, and here's the surprise
They pay extra for logos, which in turn advertise.
Is Diana an angel, is Charles a cad?
It's a media circus gone totally mad
The never ending rehash of their private lives
And who knows the truth between husbands and wives?
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2015/4/25 - 21:42
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La prima registrazione risale al 1947 ad opera del solito Alan Lomax (che non si accontentava di aver consolidato il patrimonio musicale folklorico americano, ma scorrazzava anche in Europa, Italia compresa) che la raccolse nell’esecuzione di tal Charger Salmond con un gruppo di suoi amici e che la incluse in un volume, intitolato semplicemente “England”, della raccolta “The Columbia World Library of Folk and Primitive Music”, pubblicato nel 1955.
In seguito molti artisti hanno offerto versioni (anche attualizzate) del brano: Shirley Collins nel 1967, Michael Cooney nel 1968, Sandy Denny nel 1972, Peter Bellamy nel 1975, Martin Carthy nel 1982, Maddy Prior negli anni 90...
Una splendida canzone che parla dei profittatori succhiasangue di ogni tempo, piccoli o grandi che essi siano, e della fine che gli onesti sfruttati vorrebbero riservar loro. “Rig” indica un trucco, un modo per fregare qualcuno...
Il testo che propongo per primo - trovato, come quelli che seguono, su Mainly Norfolk: English Folk and Other Good Music - è quello della prima registrazione fatta da Alan Lomax il 27 ottobre 1947 a Sutton, Norfolk, da un gruppo formato da tal Charger Salmond e suoi amici.