Page:Excellent new song called the farmer's glory.pdf/6

Nor can our own tradeſmen live,
If we conſider right,
The maſon, ſmith and weaver,
The taylor and the wright
The miller has no corn to grind,
Nor could he take his due,
But him and thouſands you will find,
Depend upon the plow.
You ſee the curious bakery
Who daily doth ſupply,
Our cities with great plenty,
Of bread both wheat and rye,
Appearing white like angels,
When in their common hue,
Yet they can get no flour to bake
Without help of the plow,
The maltſter and the ale wives,
On other doth depend,
Were’t not ſuch occupation,
Exciſemen would not ſend,
But if we had not maltſters,
No ale our wives could brew
Yet none of all thoſe callings
Can live without the plow.
But here’s a great vexation,
Which makes our ſpirits fail,
A heavy new taxation,
Come on our wives’s ale,
So thin it only makes us piſs,
I mean the ale they brew,
’Tis weak enough, but yet for this,