The cry is still “They come,” and I
Could almost wriggle with agony,
For while one man would a tax impose,
Another, remission would fain propose;
One worthy our tea would from duty free.
And another would tax up our mild Bohea;
While many would gladly change the law,
And put the screw upon whisky raw.
Which is exasperating, for
I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.