What little we may have by industry made,
We must pay for a licence to set up a trade;
So that ev’ry poor devil must now be tax’d more
For dealing in goods that paid taxes before.
Deny down, &c
The Callico-printers may beg if they please;
As dry as a sponge he their cotton will squeeze;
With their tears let them print their own linens, cries he,
But they never shall make an impression on me,
Deny down, &c
The crazy old hackney-coach, almost broke down,
Must now pay ten shillings instead of a crown;
And to break him down quite, if the first will not do’t,
Ten shillings a-piece on his horses to boot.
Deny down, &c
The tax upon horses may not be severe,
But his scheme for collecting it seems very queer;
Did a school-boy e’er dream of a project so idle?
A tax on a horse by a stamp on a bridle!
Deny down, &c
The tax upon sportsmen I hold to be right;
And only lament that the tax is so light;
But, alas! it is light for this palpable cause,
That sportsmen themselves are the makers of laws!
Deny down, &c
He fain would have meddled with coals, but I wot
For his fingers the Gentleman found them too hot;
The rich did not like it, and so to be sure,
In its place he must find out a tax on the poor.
Deny down, &c
Then last, that our murmurs may teaze him the less,
By a tax upon paper he’d silence the press;
So our sorrow by singing can ne’er be relax’d,
Since a song upon taxes itself must be tax’d.
Deny down, &c
But now it is time I should finish my song,
And I wish from my soul that it was not so long,
Since at length it evinces in trusting to PITT,
Good neighbours, we all have been cursedly bit.
Deny down, &c
EPIGRAM.
While BURKE, in strains pathetic, paints
The sufferings dire of GENTOO saints,
From HOLY CITY[1] driven;
Cries HASTINGS, I admit their worth,
I thought them far too good for earth,
So pack’d them off to Heaven.