Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
There was no filver to be seen.
But to this parchment let the Drapier
Oppofe his counter-charm of paper,
And ring Wood's copper in our ears
So loud till all the nation hears;
That found will make the parchment shrivel,
And drive the conjurers to the devil:
And, when the sky is grown serene,
Our filver will appear again.
WOOD AN INSECT. 1725.
BY long observation I have understood,
That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood.
The first is an infect they call a wood-louse,
That folds up itself in itself for a houfe,
As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
Inclos'd cap-a-pe in a strong coat of mail.
And thus William Wood to my fancy appears
In fillets of brass roll'd up to his ears :
And over these fillets he wifely has thrown,
To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone *.
The loufe of the wood for a medicine is us'd,
Or fwallow'd alive, or skilfully bruis'd.
And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive
To fwallow Will Wood either bruis'd or alive,
* He was in gaol for debt.
She need be no more with the jaundice possest,
Or fick of obstructions, and pains in ber 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 those in the house who are fick :
For, as fure as a gun, they will give up the ghoft,
If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post.
But a kettle of scalding 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 scratch'd at the
Of a governing statefman or favourite whore :
The death of our nation he feem'd to foretell,
And the found of his brafs 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 scald 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 chuse which you please, and let each bring a faggot,
For our fear 's at an end with the death of the maggot.
* Counterfeit half-pence.
ON WOOD THE IRON-MONGER. ER. 1725.
SALMONEUS, as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad copper-smith of Elis;
Up at his forge by nmorning-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 steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod.
Of polith'd brafs his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar,
And up he mounts into the box,
And he must thunder, with a pox.
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch:
With squibs 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 sprawling;
They fearch'd his pockets on the place,
And found his copper all was base;
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
Mistook at first for thunder-bolts;
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
Which, lighting on th' impoftor's crown,
Like real thunder knock'd him down.
TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND; Being an excellent NEW SONG, supposed to be made and fung in the Streets of DUBLIN, by WILLIAM Wood, Iron-monger and Half-penny-monger.
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 shine!
They 'll fell, to my grief,
As cheap as neck-beef,
For counters at cards to your wife;
And every day
Your children may play
Span-farthing, or toss on the knife.
Come hither, and try;
I 'll teach you to buy
A pot of good ale for a farthing :
Come; three-pence a score,
I ask you no more,
And a fig for the Drapier and Hardinge *.
When tradesmen 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 nay 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 thoufands 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.
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