The Knife-grinder

There are grinders enough, sirs, of every degree, From jewel-deck'd great to low poverty; Whatever the station, it sharpens the sense, And the wheel it goes round to wind in the pence. Master-grinders enough at the helm you may find, Tho' I'm but a journeyman—Knives to grind.

Whatever the statesman may think of himself, He turns fortune's wheel in pursuit of the pelf; He grinds back and edge, sirs, his ends to obtain, And his country may starve, so he pockets the gain. Master-grinders, &c.

The rich grind the poor, is a saying of old; The merchant the tradesman, we need not be told: Whether Pagan, Mahometan, Christian you be, There are grinders of all sorts, of ev'ry degree. Master-grinders, &c.

The patriot, with zeal animated, declares The curtain he'll draw, and display the state-play'rs; He is a staunch grinder, to some 'tis well known, And they're mightily gall'd by the grit of his stone. Master-grinders, &c.

I too am a grinder; what, what, sirs, of that? I am but in taste, since I copy the great: To be, sirs, ingenuous, I'll tell you my mind; 'Tis for what I can get, makes me willing to grind. Master-grinders enough at the helm you may find, Tho' I'm but a journeyman—Knives to grind.