The Bountiful BREWERS,
Who pays the King's Taxes out of the Poor Mens Purses, rather than
diminish their own golden Stores.
To the Tune of, An Orange.
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IN this present Reign, the War to maintain,
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A Tax being laid upon Liquor of Grain,
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'Tis Barley made Malt, but here I must halt,
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To give you a Touch of a damnable Fault
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of the Brewer.
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The Parliament they, was pleased to lay
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The Tax upon those that are able to pay;
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May Heaven therefore, replenish their Store,
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Yet this very Tax is now laid on the Poor,
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by the Brewer.
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On Dealers retail of strong Beer and Ale,
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This Tax is not laid but of Traders whole-sail;
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This was the intent of the good Parliament,
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But some says, they had not the perfect consent
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of the Brewers.
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The Case being thus, they make a sad Fuss
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Yet they will pay nothing out of their own Purse
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But as for the Act, they vow to exact
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Upon the poor Tradesmen, and thus they are rack'd
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by the Brewer:
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Their Liquors made small, their Measures they maul,
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Nay, was I but now for to reckon up all,
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The Ways that they take, this Money to make,
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You'd swear that the Devil had now lent a Rake
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to the Brewers.
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Their Conscience they stain, for Profit and Gain,
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And yet if an honest Man chance to complain,
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They huffingly say, Such Taxes they pay,
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That it will be smaller before [the next day;]
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wretched Brewers.
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Their Coffers to fill, I know that they will
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Give us a true touch of their dexterous skill;
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Much Water they'll put to make us Rat-gut;
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Likewise it is said that their Gallons are cut;
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wretched Brewers.
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And were you to sink, for one Cup of Drink
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They will not part with it, but cry, Do you think
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That Tax we can pay, by giving away?
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They shant have so much as the smell of a Dray
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u[n]der Six-pence.
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They are glad of this hit, for why they will get
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A treble Excise by their Diligent Wit;
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For the River and Wells, where Water excels
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Shall pay the King's Taxes, and get Golden Spells,
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for the Brewer.
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The Truth to relate, their Profit is great,
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For most of them having a worthy Estate,
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Gold, Silver beside, flows in like a tyde,
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And they have the River of Thames on their side;
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wealthy Brewers.
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We formerly here, complain'd of their Beer,
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But then they would tell us that Malt it was dear;
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Yet now Prices fall, the Liquor is small,
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And therefore they should get the Devil and all,
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wretched Brewers.
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Strange ways they devise, to raise this Excise,
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The smallest of Liquor now highly they prize;
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Such Profit they bring from every Spring,
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That Faith, I believe, they get more then the King,
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wretched Brewers.
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At the Alehouse likewise, Strong-liquor does rise,
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For two they must needs have full seven Excise;
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Two-pence Half-penny a Quart, my Host will retort,
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And at their best Costomers plaguely snort,
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if they grumble.
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Hads Zookers, cries Will, th[?]
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Will spoil the next Two-pen[?]
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Have none of their Drink [?]
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We'll save all our Mon[?]
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to a Bu[?]
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