When he pulls out his two pence, the Tapfter fays not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his fhot;
And thus the poor Soldier muft foon go to pot.
If he goes to the Baker, the Baker will huff,
And twenty pence have for a two-penny loaf,
Then, dog, rogue, and rafcal, and fo kick and cuff.
Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The Butcher and Soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nofe.
The Butcher is ftout, and he values no fwagger;
A cleaver 's a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue fleeve may give fuch a cuff as may ftagger.
The Beggars themfelves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are funk in their prices When nothing is left, they muft live on their lice.
The Squire poffefs'd of twelve thousand a year,
O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear
Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I
Though at prefent he lives in a very large house,
"There would then not be room in it left for a mouse;
But the Squire 's too wife, he will not take a foufe.
The Farmer, who comes with his rent in this cash,
For taking thefe counters, and being so rafh,
Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his trafh.
For, in all the leafes that ever we hold,
We must pay our rent in good filver and gold,
And not in brafs tokens of fuch a bafe mold.
The wifeft of Lawyers all fwear, they will warrant
No money but filver and gold can be current;
And, fince they will fwear it, we all may be fure on 't.
Which, &c.
And I think, after all, it would be very ftrange,
To give current money for bafe in exchange,
Like a fine lady fwapping her moles for the mange.
Which, &c.
But read the king's patent, and there you will find,
That no man need take them but who has a mind,
For which we must say that his Majesty 's kind.
Now God blefs the Drapier who open'd our eyes!
I'm fure, by his book, that the writer is wife:
He fhews us the cheat, from the end to the rife.
Nay, farther he fhews it a very hard cafe,
That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,
Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place.
That he and his half-pence fhould come to weigh down Our fubjects fo loyal and true to the crown;
But I hope, after all, that they will be his own.
This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods,
And a very good book against Mr. Wood's ;
If you ftand true together, he 's left in the fuds.
Ye fhop-men and trades-men and farmers, go read it,
For I think in my foul at this time that you need it;
Or egad, if you don't, there's an end of your credit.
Which nobody can deny.
A SERIOUS POEM Upon WILLIAM WOOD, Brafier, Tinker, Hardwareman, Coiner, Founder, and Efquire.
HEN foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from
flaughter,
To be berers of wood, and drawers of water.
Now, although to draw water is not very good;
Yet we all fhould rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
I own, it has often provok'd me to mutter,
That a rogue fo obfcure thould make fuch a clutter:
But antient Philofophers wifely remark,
That old rotten Wood will fhine in the dark.
The Heathens, we read, had Gods made of Wood,
Who could do them no harm, if they did them no good: But this idol Wood may do us great evil;
Their Gods were of Wood; but our Wood is the Devil.
To cut down fine Wood, is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring.
Then, if cutting down Wood brings money good store,
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more.
Now hear an old tale. There anciently stood
(I forget in what church) an image of Wood.
Concerning this image, there went a prediction,
It would burn a whole foreft; nor was it a fiction.
'Twas cut into faggots and put to the flame,
To burn an old Friar, one Foreft by name.
My tale is a wife one, if well understood:
Find you but the Friar; and I'll find the Wood.
I hear, among fcholars there is a great doubt
From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out.
Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech
And said, By my fhoul, he's the son of a BEECH.
Some call him a Thorn, the curfe of the nation,
As Thorns were defign'd to be from the creation.
Some think him cut out from the poisonous Yew;
Beneath whofe ill fhade no plant ever grew.
Some fay he's a Birch, a thought very odd;
For none but a dunce would come under his rod.
But I'll tell you the fecret; and pray do not blab e
He is an old ftump, cut out of a Crab;
And England has put this Crab to a hard use,
To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us verjuice ;
And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
That none are more properly knights of the Poft.
I ne'er could endure my talent to smother :
I told you one tale, and I'll tell you another."
A joiner, to fasten a faint in a nitch,
Bor'd a lage auger-hole in the image's breech.
But, finding the flatue to make no complaint,
He would ne'er be convinced it was a true faint.
When the true Wood arrives, as he foon will, no doubt,
(For that 's but a fham Wood they carry about * ;)
What fruff he is made of you quickly may find,
you make the fame trial, and bore him behind.
I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum,
He'll bellow as loud as the Devil in a drum.
From me, I declare, you shall have no denial;
And there can be no harm in making a trial:
And, when to the joy of your hearts he has roar'd,
You may
fhew him about for a new groaning-board.
Hear one flory more, and then I will stop.
I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop:
So methought he refolved no liquor to taste,
For fear the firft drop might as well be his laft.
But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em;
For it prov'd that he died of a drop at Kilmainham †.
I wak'd with delight; and not without hope,
Very foon to fee Wood drop down from a rope.
How he and how we, at each other should grin!
'Tis kindness to held a friend up by the chin.
But foft fays the Herald; I cannot agree;
For metal on metal is falfe Heraldry.
'Why, that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood,
I'll maintain with my life, is Heraldry good.
*He was frequently burnt in effigy.
+ Their place of execution.
|