London astrologer, or, A young girl put to the blush/The Maltman

THE MALTMAN.

THE maltman comes on Munday,
⁠he craves wonder fair,
Cries "Dame come gi'e me my ſiller,
⁠"or malt ye ſall ne'er get mair."
I took him into the pantry,
⁠and gave him ſome cock-broo,
Syne paid him upon a gantree,
⁠as hoſtler-wives ſhould do.

When maltmen come for ſiller,
⁠and gaugers wi' wands o'er ſoon,
Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar,
⁠and clear them as I ha'e done.
This bewith, when cunzie is ſcanty,
⁠will keep them frae making din;
The knack I learn'd frae an auld aunty,
⁠the ſnackeſt o' a' my kin.

The maltman is right cunning,
⁠but I can be as ſlee,
An' he may crack o' his winning,
⁠whan he clears ſcores wi' me;
⟨For⟩ come whan he likes, I'm ready,
⁠but if frae hame I be,
Let him wait on our kind Lady,
⁠ſhe'll anſwer a bill for me.