In shape of Powder-tax.[[172]]
Sore leaning on his crutch, he cried,
“Crop, crop, my merry men all;
No guinea for your head I’ll pay,
Though Church and State should fall.”
Again the taxing-man appear’d—
No deadlier foe could be;
A schedule of a cloth-yard long,
Within his hand bore he.
“Yield thee, Duke Smithson, and behold