The Brewers Benefit,
Who to pay the New Excise, pinches the poor of their Measure; making others pay for what was laid upon
themselves. To the Tune of, An Orange. Licensed according to Order.
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A Tax it is laid, on the Brewing Trade,
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By which many thousand good pounds must be paid;
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But this I must say, the Brewers streightway
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Has shorten'd their Measures, and makes the poor pay
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The Excise, Sir.
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The Ale-Wives complain, in having small gain,
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And grumble and grutch at the loss they sustain:
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To salve up this sore, the Brewer therefore,
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Perswades 'um 'twill hold but twelve months, & no more,
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Cunning Brewers.
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Yet this I must tell, one thing happens well,
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The Brewers that nappy stout Liquor did sell,
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The Thames being near, they void of all fear,
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By using less Mault brew the Liquor more clear,
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Honest Brewers.
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The Taylors, the Weavers, the Coblers too,
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At this their hard usage do utterly rue;
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For whilst that a Quart, of strong Ale was their part,
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A Pint must suffice now to nourish the Heart,
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Honest Brewers.
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The Prentices they, complain of foul play,
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And likewise the Maids, as they very well may;
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'Cause no Christmas-Beer, will be given this Year,
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The Brewer will have their worst wishes, I fear,
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breaking Custome.
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Such a pudder and rout, is now made about,
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How this Three Shilling Tax it shall be made out;
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Such inching and pinching, such cunning in thinking,
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How the poor may be cheated i'th' measure of drinking,
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by th' Brewer.
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The Brewers they say, pair their Measures away,
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Or else fill them up to the middle with Clay:
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They huff and they puff, toss up Nose, and do snuff,
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If complain of their Liquors you have not enough,
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for your Money.
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And if you retort, they tell you in short,
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Because it is so you may thank the French for't,
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If Measures be tall, they must brew your Drink small,
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Or else we shalt ne'r get the Devil and all,
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quoth the Brewer.
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I'll tell you a tale, which is not very stale,
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Of a Tyde that came up to be brew'd into Ale;
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Not a Brewer in twenty, but smil'd at this plenty,
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Yet fear'd by their Pumping the Thames shou'd be empty,
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rare Brewers.
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When Barley was scanty, Molossus was plenty,
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Which Mault did supply, else their Chests had stood empty
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So if Hopps were dear now, and if Malt were so too,
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As not long since they were, then the Devil might brew[,]
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for the Brewers.
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But since prizes are low, as all men do know,
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You cannot but guess then what profit does grow
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By the brewing trade, which hundreds hath made
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So rich, that like Ladies their Wives go array'd,
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wealthy Brewers.
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Another new way, they found out t'other Day,
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To shorten their Gallons, and make the poor pay:
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It is such a trick, if not ta'ne in the nick,
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For want of due measure 'twill make the Folks sick,
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hollow bottoms.
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This Tax tho' 'twas laid, by Brewers to be paid,
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Most part on't is squeez'd out of every trade:
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'Tis a delicate thing, and such profit doth bring,
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One wou'd swear that this Tax was ne'r made for the King,
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but the brewer.
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FINIS.
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