THE
Inn-keeper's Complaint;
OR, THE
Country Victuallor's Lamentation for the Dearness of MALT,
Which hinder's their affording their Shot-Flaggons: concluding with a Hope
of seeing happy Days after this Royal Decent.
To the Tune of, Let Mary live long.
Licensed according to Order.
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POor Innkeepers now,
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all over the nation,
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make sad lamentation;
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We cannot allow,
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large measure of late;
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For the Malt here does rise.
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Beside double Excise,
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which grieve's us full sore:
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We can't sell large flaggons,
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We can't sell large flaggons,
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as we did before.
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Poor Inn-keepers they,
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do scarce take a penny,
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or two-pence of any,
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Sometimes in a day,
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since trading is dead:
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For the generous soul,
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Who did love a full bowl,
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great husbands they grow,
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Which ruin's our calling, etc.
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good people you know.
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'Twas happy when we,
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had farmers and plowmen,
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rich grafters and yeomen,
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Who noble and free,
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would call in for ale;
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While in mirth they did roar,
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We could decently score,
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two flaggons for one:
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But now they'r grown saving,
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But now they'r grown saving,
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it cannot be done.
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We then could afford,
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to keep a good table,
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alass! we were able
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To bring to the board,
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good bacon or beef,
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As a relishing bit,
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That all day they might sit,
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and business ply;
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Until their dear noses,
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Until their dear noses,
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was of a deep dye.
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At paying their shot,
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we hated all sneaking,
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without any speaking,
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A come-again-pot,
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we'd presently draw:
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Which would settle them in,
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To their drinking agen;
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this frequently made,
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Among the Inn-keepers,
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Among the Inn-keepers,
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a delicate trade.
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But Malt now is dear,
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with taxes and trouble,
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it make's the price double,
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And therefore I fear,
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Inn-keepers will break:
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Instead of coin'd plate,
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Heavy farthings of late,
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does plague us likewise:
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While no one collecter,
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While no one collecter,
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will take for excise.
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In ten or twelve pound,
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the Maltsters unwilling,
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to take twenty shilling,
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He cry's he's not bound,
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to take no such sum:
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Thus a racket they make,
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When 'tis half that we take;
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(men down with their dust,)
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And if we refuse it,
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And if we refuse it,
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efaith we must trust.
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Though taxes are large,
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and silver be scanty,
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while farthings are plenty;
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Yet still we'll discharge
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our duty like men:
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Nay, and patiently wait
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For a flourishing state,
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when William our King,
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The Crown of old Lewis,
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The Crown of old Lewis,
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to England shall bring.
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A royal decent,
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our monarch is making,
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while Lewis is quaking;
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Then let us content
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ourselves for a while:
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We wall see happy days,
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Which our spirits will raise,
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and give France they'r bane,
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Then, then, the shot-flaggon,
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Then, then, the shot-flaggon,
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you shall have again.
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