It sims the Exchequer can loosen a noose
Which the law too cruelly ties, mon;
So Looshington cried, “Ye’ve foond a mare’s nest,
We weesh ye much joy o’ the prize, mon;
’Tes a vera new grievance, but are o’ the best,
Whan the Trasury snubs the Excisemon.”
The Broom is commonly pawkie enoo;
Boot was, faith, ilka night, not a wise mon,
Ef he thought in the coontry, to make a hubboo,
Wi’ a mossion aboot an Excisemon;