Struck poor Duke Smithson to the heart,
In shape of Powder-tax.[45]
Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,
“Crop, crop, my merry men all;
No guinea for your heads I’ll pay,
Though Church and State should fall.”
Again the taxing-man appeared—
No deadlier foe could be;
A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hands bore he.