For nothing shall pass
But my pretty brass,
And then you 'll be all of a trade.
I 'm a fon of a whore
If I have a word more
To say in this wretched condition.
If my coin will not pass,
I must die like an ass;
And fo I conclude my petition.
NEW SONG
ON WOOD'S HALF-PENCE.
VE people of Ireland, both country and city,
Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty:
At this time I 'H chuse to be wiser than witty.
The Half-pence are coming, the nation's undoing, There 's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and
In short, you must all go to rack and to ruin.
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.
When he pulls out his two pence, the Tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor Soldier must 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.
Which, &c.
Again, to the market whenever he goes,
The Butcher and Soldier must be mortal foes,
One cuts off an ear, and the other a nose.
The Butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver 's a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue fleeve may give fuch a cuff as may stagger.
Which, &c.
The Beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
When thus their poor farthings are funk in their price;
When nothing is left, they must 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 present 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 these counters, and being fo rash,
Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his trash.
Which, &c.
For, in all the leafes that ever we hold,
We must pay our rent in good filver and gold,
And not in brass tokens of fuch a base mold.
The wisest of Lawyers all swear, they will warrant
No money but filver and gold can be current;
And, fince they will swear it, we all may be fure on 't.-
Which, &c.
And I think, after all, it would be very strange,
To give current money for base in exchange,
Like a fine lady fwapping her moles for the mange.
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 bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes!
I'm fure, by his book, that the writer is wife :
He shews us the cheat, from the end to the rife.
Nay, farther he shews 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 should 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 againft Mr. Wood's;
If you ftand true together, he's left in the fuds.
Ye shop-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.
A SERIOUS PОЕМ
Upon WILLIAM WOOD, Brafier, Tinker, Hardwareman, Coiner, Founder, and Esquire. WHEN foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from
To be bewers of wood, and drawers of water.
Now, although to draw water is not very good;
Yet we all should rejoice to be bewers of Wood.
I own, it has often provok'd me to mutter,
That a rogue so obfcure should make such 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 inoney 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 scholars 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 speecir;
And faid, By my shoul, he's the son of a BEECH.
Some call him a Thorn, the curse of the nation,
As Thorns were design'd to be from the creation.
Some think him cut out from the poisonous Yew;
Beneath whose ill shade 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 secret; and pray do not blab :
He is an old stump, 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 Pft.
I ne'er could endure my talent to smother: I told you one tale, and I'll tell you another.
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