DIALOGU[E]
BETWIXT
A Glasgow MALT-MAN and an English EXCISE-MA[N]
at the Commencement of the MALT-TAX.
Written by Mr. Pennecuik.
Armati Terram exercent semper que recentes,
Convictare juvat predas et vivere rapto.
Virg. AEned. L.3.
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FLush'd with a double Draught of double Strong,
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A merry Malt-man took his Morning Song;
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Blyth as the Lark, chants to the rising Morn,
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Sung to the Praise of Sir John Barlycorn:
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He views the swelling Steep, and is well pleas'd,
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The Fount where Sir John Barlycorns baptiz'd;
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Gives him fresh Liquor, since his old is stale,
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Knowing he'll pay him back in humming Ale;
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Surveys his Circuit in its Breadth and Length,
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And laughs to see him quicken unto Strength:
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Then to the Kill, his Altar, doth retire,
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Where he, like Cere's Priest, keeps a perpetual Fire;
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Upon his Bed of Straw makes him ly snug,
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And cloathes him with a covenanted Rug,
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The Kirk's Hair-gown, and by that Weed's foretold,
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He'll prove a lusty Sinner when he's old.
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Back to the Floor returns, takes a new Broom,
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And, like a faithful Keeper, sweeps the Room:
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Toil'd with his Morning Task, lies down to rest,
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Making a Pillow of his Master's Breast.
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Scarce has he sunk to downy Sleep, when he
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Is rous'd from dreaming, by a turning Key,
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And Voice of Bully from a foreign Land,
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Come to Sir John, to gage his Stock in Hand:
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The figur'd Tap flies from Pandoras Box,
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Worse than the Plague, the Pestilence or Pox,
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Draws out an English Yard, and at the Length,
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Measures his Breadth, his Thickness and his Strength;
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Stop, stop ye English Taylor, Malt-man cries,
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And Reverence my Master where he lies,
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An English Suite was never on his Back,
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Naked at Home, Abroad he wears a Sack.
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D---n your Blood B---r Scot, quoth English Tom,
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(Who was an honest Highway-man at Home)
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I'm Servant to old England, and be Gad,
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We'll gage Sir John, and starve him out of Trade;
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We'll levy Taxes by a pow'rful Host,
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Go you complain unto Belhavens Ghost.
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May neither Oats or Oxen grace your Ground,
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Or Plants, or Eatables with you be found;
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May Lice and Mange suck and corrupt your Blood,
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And you, unfed, yourself be Vermine's Food,
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Till you herd English Hogs, thro' Want of Bread,
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And naught, save English Laws, be read be-north the Tweed.
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Who can describe the mournful Malt-man's Ca[se,]
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Who saw old Tyburn in his English Face?
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Three Times he knock'd his Heart, which sun[?]
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And thrice the Scoop he flourish'd round his Hea[?]
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Kicking the Besom, round the Floor he ran,
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And threw a Firlot at the Gaging-man,
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Whilst Peets, like Hail-stones, flew upon his Hid[e,]
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Cried, D---l steep you English Rogues in Cly[de.]
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And when you've got Sufficient of the Steep,
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A Last of D---ls rot you in the Heap,
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And work you thro' their Floor with hellish S[?]
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Then dry you on their ever-burning Kill:
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Six Times he groan'd, and fell upon Sir John,
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Said, O my dear dead Master, art thou gone?
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Ah! how can we survive thy fatal Fall,
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Thou universal Parent of us all?
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Sucking thy Blood, we spent the merry Hou[rs]
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Thy Blood was consubstantiate with ours;
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Our Mother's Milk was soon expel'd by thi[ne]
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A Liquor scarce inferior to the Wine:
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Each Mouth, with Pleasure, gap'd to let th[?]
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The Nation was thy Flesh, thy Blood, thy ne[?]
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Glasgow, with Tears, lament thy rigid F[ate]
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From Glory tumbled to a wretched State;
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Thy Ships, like Woods, danc'd on the wat'[?]
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To fetch the Indies to our native Clime[?]
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From foreign Ports no more thy Vessels co[me]
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And Sir John Barlycorn dies at Home.
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Ah Glasgow! what's thy Guilt that makes [?]
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Is it for bearing Arms at S---e?
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Without Pay fighting for a F---n P---e,
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A very fine Reward he's giv'n you since.
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Weeping, he threw himself upon Sir John,
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Saying, I'll write thy Epitaph on Stone.
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Sir John Barlycorns EPITAPH
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An old bold Wariour, lies within this Clay,
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Who knock'd down Thousand Mortals in a [day.]
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At last he was betray'd by treach'rous [?]
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In the same Way by which they murd'red [?]
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What Guns could not perform, was done [?]
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In killing him they cut the Nation's Thr[?]
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