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SONGSTER. 187
The baker will swear all his bread's made of flour ;
But just mention alum, you'll make him look sour ;
His ground bones and pebbles turn men skin and
S)one,
We ask him for bread, and he gives us a stone.
A sUppery rogue is the cheesemonger, zounds.
For with kitchen-stuff oft he his batter compounds:
His fresh eggs are laid over the water, we know.
For which, faith, he over the water should go.
The butcher puffs his tough mutton like lamb.
And oft for south down sells an old mountain ram ;
Bleed poor worn-out cows to pass off for white veal.
For which he deserves to die by his own steel.
The brewer a chemist is, that is quite clear.
For we soon find no hops have hopp'd into his beer
'Stead of malt, he from drugs brews his porter and
swipes.
So, no wonder that wc have so often the dFug gripes!
The tobacconist smokes us with short cut of weeds,
And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds:
With snuff of ground grass and dust, oft we are
gull'd.
And for serving our noses so, his should be pull'd.
The wine merchant, that we abroad may not roayn,
With sloe juice and brandy makes our j!;o7^i( at ho7ne.
The distillers their gin have with vitriol fill'd,
So 't^.s clear they're in roguery, double distill'd.
Thus, we rogues have in grain, and in teal, too, that's
clear.
But don't think j^suppose we have any lOgues here ;
" Present company's always excepted," you know.
So I wish all rogues their deserts—so, now I must ga