THE Inn-keeper's Complaint;  
OR, THE Country Victuallor's Lamentation for the Dearness of MALT, Which hinders their affording their Shot-Flaggons: concluding with a Hope of seeing happy Days after this Royal Decent.  
To the Tune of, Let Mary live long.  

Licenced according to Order.   
 

Poor Innkeepers now,  
all over the nation,  
make sad lamentation;  
We cannot allow,  
large measure of late;  
For the Malt here does rise.  
Beside double Excise,  
which grieve's us full sore:  
We can't sell large flagons,  
We can't sell large flagons,  
as we did before.   

Poor Innkeepers they,  
do scarce take a penny,  
or twopences of any,  
Sometimes in a day,  
●●●…e trading is dead:  
For the generous soul,  
Who did love a full bowl,  
great husbands they grow,  
Which ruins our calling, etc.  
good people you know.   

'Twas happy when we,  
had farmers and plowmen,  
rich grafters and yeomen,  
Who noble and free,  
would call in for ale;  
While in mirth they did roar,  
We could decently score,  
two flagons for one:  
But now they're grown saving,  
But now they're grown saving,  
it cannot be done.   
 

We than could afford,  
to keep a good table,  
alas! we were able  
To bring to the board,  
good bacon or beef,  
As a relishing bit,  
That all day they might sit,  
and business ply;  
Until their dear noses,  
Until their dear noses,  
was of a deep dye.   

At paying their shot,  
we hated all sneaking,  
without any speaking,  
A come-again-pot,  
we'd presently draw:  
Which would settle them in,  
To their drinking again;  
this frequently made,  
Among the Innkeepers,  
Among the Innkeepers,  
a delicate trade.   

But Malt new is dear,  
with taxes and trouble,  
it makes the price double,  
And therefore I fear,  
Innkeepers will break:  
Instead of coin'dplate,  
Heavy farthings of late,  
does plague us likewise:  
While no one collecter,  
While no one collecter,  
will take for excise.   

In ten or twelve pound,  
the Maltster's unwilling,  
to take twenty shilling,  
He cries he's not bound,  
to take no such sum:  
Thus a racket they make,  
When 'tis half that we take;  
(men down with their dust,)  
And if we refuse it,  
And if we refuse it,  
efaith we must trust.   

Though taxes are large,  
and silver be scanty,  
while farthings are plenty,  
Yet still we'll discharge  
our duty like men:  
Nay, and patiently wait  
For a flourishing state,  
when William our King,  
The Crown of old Lewis,  
The Crown of old Lewis,  
to England shall bring.   

A royal decent,  
our monarch is making,  
while Lewis is quaking;  
Then let us content  
ourselves for a while:  
We wall see happy days,  
Which our spirits will raise,  
and give France they're bane,  
Then, then, the shot-flaggon,  
Then, then, the shot-flaggon,  
you shall have again.    

Printed for I. Blare, at the Looking-glass on London-Bridge.