She need be no more with the jaundice poffeft,
Or fick of obftructions, and pains in her cheft.

The next is an infect we call a wood-worm, That lies in old wood like a hare in her form; With teeth or with claws it will bite or will scratch, And chambermaids chriften this worm a death-watch; Because like a watch it always cries click:

Then woe be to thofe in the house who are fick :

For, as fure as a gun, they will give up

the ghost, If the maggot cries click when it scratches the poft. But a kettle of fcalding hot water injected Infallibly cures the timber affected:

The omen is broken, the danger is over;

The maggot will die, and the fick will recover.

Such a worm was Will Wood, when he fcratch'd at the

door

Of a governing ftatefman or favourite whore :

The death of our nation he feem'd to foretell,
And the found of his bfafs we took for our knell.
But now, fince the Drapier hath heartily maul'd him,
I think the best thing we can do is to fcald him.
For which operation there's nothing more proper
Than the liquor he deals in, his own melted copper;
Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil
This coiner of raps * in a cauldron of oil.

Then chufe which you pleafe, and let each bring a faggot,
For our fear 's at an end with the death of the maggot.

Counterfeit half-pence.

ON

7. 2

ON WOOD THE IRON-MONGER.

SAL

17259

ALMONEUS, as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad copper-smith of Elis;
Up at his forge by morning-peep,
No creature in the lane could fleep;
Among a crew of royftering fellows
Would fit whole evenings at the alehouse ::
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vapouring scab must needs devise.
To ape the thunder of the skies:
With brass two fiery fteeds he fhod,
To make a clattering as they trod.
Of polish'd brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar,
And up he mounts into the box,
And he muft thunder, with a pox..
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch:
With fquibs and crackers arm'd, to throw
Among the trembling croud below.

All ran to prayers, both priests and laity,
To pacify this angry deity:

When Jove, in pity to the town,

With real thunder knock'd him down.
Then what a huge delight were all in,
To fee the wicked varlet fprawling;
They fearch'd his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was bafe ;

They

They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder,
To take the noife of brafs for thunder.
The moral of this tale is proper,
Apply'd to Wood's adulter'd copper :
Which, as he scatter'd, we like dolts
Miftook at firft for thunder-bolts;
Before the Drapier fhot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
'Which, lighting on th' impoftor's crown,
Like real thunder knock'd him down.

WILL WOOD'S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND; Being an excellent NEW SONG, fuppofed to be made and fung in the Streets of DUBLIN, by WILLIAM WOOD, Iron-monger and Half-penny-monger.

1725.

My dear Irish folks,

Come leave off your jokes,

And buy up my half-pence so fine;

So fair and fo bright,

They 'll give you delight;
Obferve, how they gliften and fhine!

They'll fell, to my grief,
As cheap as neck-beef,

For counters at cards to your wife;

A

Come hither, and try;

I'll teach you to buy

pot of good ale for a farthing:
Come; three-pence a score,
I afk you no more,

And a fig for the Drapier and Hardinge *
When tradefinen have gold,

The thief will be bold,

By day and by night for to rob him :
My copper is fuch,

No robber will touch,
And fo you may daintily bob him.

The little black-guard,

Who gets very hard

His half-pence for cleaning your shoes:
When his pockets are cramm'd
With mine and be d-'d,

He

may fwear he has nothing to lofe.

Here's half-pence in plenty,

For one you'll have twenty,
Though thousands are not worth a pudden :

Your neighbours will think,

When your pocket cries chink,
You are grown plaguy rich on a fudden.

You will be my thankers,

I'll make you my bankers,

As good as Ben Burton or Fade † :

*The Drapier's printer.

Two famous bankers.

For

YE

E people of Ireland, both country and city, Come liften with patience, and hear out my ditty: At this time I'll chuse to be wiser than witty.

Which nobody can deny.

The Half-pence are coming, the nation's undoing, There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing;

In short, you must all go to rack and to ruin.

Which, &c.

Both high men and low men, and thick men and tall men,
And rich men and poor men, and free men and thrall men,
Will fuffer; and this man, and that man, and all men.
Which, &c.

The Soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
His five pence will prove but a farthing a day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.