The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2

     [Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt's speech, which is here parodied, was made when
     the Duke of Ormond, Swift's valued friend, was attainted, and superseded
     in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from
     1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II.

     There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift,
     whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be
     worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to
     the cathedral of St. Patrick's a superb organ, surmounted by his own
     armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after
     Ormond's attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick's, received orders from
     government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but
     he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie
     buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much
     by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.

     The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday,
     April 17, 1716, and Scott's edition of Swift, vol. xii, p. 352. The
     Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George
     Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity
     College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder,
     No. 33.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to
     which circumstance the phrase, "from this day well-affected,"
     alludes.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at
     St. James's palace.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric
     the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons,
     was nominated, by letters-patent.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the
     accession.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed,
     many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of
     the transcriber.—Scott.]

     To the tune of "Packington's Pound."

     Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes,
     Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over,
     With forty things more: now hear what the law says,
     Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover.
         Though a printer and Dean,
         Seditiously mean,
     Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean,
     We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
     In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

     In England the dead in woollen are clad,
       The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on;
     To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,
       Since a living dog better is than a dead lion.
         Our wives they grow sullen
         At wearing of woollen,
     And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in.
     Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
     In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

     Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
       To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire,
     Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder,
       And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire.
         Therefore, I assure ye,
         Our noble grand jury,
     When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury;
     They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters,
     In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

     This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning,
       And before coram nobis so oft has been call'd,
     Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen,
       And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'd:
         And as for the Dean,
         You know whom I mean,
     If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean.
     Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters,
     In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

     [Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of
     Irish Manufactures," for which the printer was prosecuted with great
     violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of
     court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift's
     Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and "Prose Works," vii, 13.—W. E. B.]

     The bold encroachers on the deep
       Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
     Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
       Turns all again to barren strand.

     The multitude's capricious pranks
       Are said to represent the seas,
     Breaking the bankers and the banks,
       Resume their own whene'er they please.

     Money, the life-blood of the nation,
       Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
     Unless a proper circulation
       Its motion and its heat maintains.

     Because 'tis lordly not to pay,
       Quakers and aldermen in state,
     Like peers, have levees every day
       Of duns attending at their gate.

     We want our money on the nail;
       The banker's ruin'd if he pays:
     They seem to act an ancient tale;
       The birds are met to strip the jays.

     "Riches," the wisest monarch sings,
       "Make pinions for themselves to fly;"[2]
     They fly like bats on parchment wings,
       And geese their silver plumes supply.

     No money left for squandering heirs!
       Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
     The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs,
       "That they had never known their letters."

     Conceive the works of midnight hags,
       Tormenting fools behind their backs:
     Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags,
       Sit squeezing images of wax.

     Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
       The witches left in open air,
     With power no more than other folk,
       Exposed with all their magic ware.

     So powerful are a banker's bills,
       Where creditors demand their due;
     They break up counters, doors, and tills,
       And leave the empty chests in view.

     Thus when an earthquake lets in light
       Upon the god of gold and hell,
     Unable to endure the sight,
       He hides within his darkest cell.

     As when a conjurer takes a lease
       From Satan for a term of years,
     The tenant's in a dismal case,
       Whene'er the bloody bond appears.

     A baited banker thus desponds,
       From his own hand foresees his fall,
     They have his soul, who have his bonds;
       'Tis like the writing on the wall.[4]

     How will the caitiff wretch be scared,
       When first he finds himself awake
     At the last trumpet, unprepared,
       And all his grand account to make!

     For in that universal call,
       Few bankers will to heaven be mounters;
     They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall!
       Conceal and cover us, ye counters!"

     When other hands the scales shall hold,
       And they, in men's and angels' sight
     Produced with all their bills and gold,
       "Weigh'd in the balance and found light!"

     [Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by
     the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was
     therefore thought fit to be reprinted.—Dublin Edition, 1734.]

     [Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.]

     [Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the
     sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: "Quam vellem nescire
     litteras!" Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, "De Clementia,", cited by
     Montaigne, "De l'inconstance de nos actions."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.—W. E. B.]

     I ask'd a Whig the other night,
     How came this wicked plot to light?
     He answer'd, that a dog of late
     Inform'd a minister of state.
     Said I, from thence I nothing know;
     For are not all informers so?
     A villain who his friend betrays,
     We style him by no other phrase;
     And so a perjured dog denotes
     Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates,
     And forty others I could name.
  WHIG. But you must know this dog was lame.
  TORY. A weighty argument indeed!
     Your evidence was lame:—proceed:
     Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile.
  WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while:
     I mean a dog (without a joke)
     Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.
  TORY. I'm still to seek, which dog you mean;
     Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,[2]
     An English or an Irish hound;
     Or t'other puppy, that was drown'd;
     Or Mason, that abandon'd bitch:
     Then pray be free, and tell me which:
     For every stander-by was marking,
     That all the noise they made was barking.
     You pay them well, the dogs have got
     Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot:
     And 'twas but just; for wise men say,
     That every dog must have his day.
     Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't,
     He'd either make a hog or dog on't;
     And look'd, since he has got his wish,
     As if he had thrown down a dish,
     Yet this I dare foretell you from it,
     He'll soon return to his own vomit.
  WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found
     By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.
  TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,
     Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
  WHIG. I proved my proposition full:
     But Jacobites are strangely dull.
     Now, let me tell you plainly, sir,
     Our witness is a real cur,
     A dog of spirit for his years;
     Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
     His name is Harlequin, I wot,
     And that's a name in every plot:
     Resolved to save the British nation,
     Though French by birth and education;
     His correspondence plainly dated,
     Was all decipher'd and translated:
     His answers were exceeding pretty,
     Before the secret wise committee;
     Confest as plain as he could bark:
     Then with his fore-foot set his mark.
  TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled,
     I thought it was a dog in doublet:
     The matter now no longer sticks:
     For statesmen never want dog-tricks.
     But since it was a real cur,
     And not a dog in metaphor,
     I give you joy of the report,
     That he's to have a place at court.
  WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in;
     A turnspit in the royal kitchen.
     Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
     We had occasion for a plot;
     And when we found the dog begin it,
     We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it.
  TORY. I own it was a dangerous project,
     And you have proved it by dog-logic.
     Sure such intelligence between
     A dog and bishop ne'er was seen,
     Till you began to change the breed;
     Your bishops are all dogs indeed!

     [Footnote 1: In Atterbury's trial a good deal of stress was laid upon the
     circumstance of a "spotted little dog" called Harlequin being mentioned
     in the intercepted correspondence. The dog was sent in a present to the
     bishop from Paris, and its leg was broken by the way. See "State Trials,"
     xvi, 320 and 376-7.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: John Kelly, and Skin, or Skinner, were persons engaged in
     the plot. Neynoe, whose declaration was taken before the lords of
     council, and used in evidence against the bishop, is "t'other puppy that
     was drown'd," which was his fate in attempting to escape from the
     messengers.]

     To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note,
     Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat;
     Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press
     His lading little, and his ballast less?
     Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world,
     At length, his anchor fix'd and canvass furl'd,
     To Lazy-hill[1] retiring from his court,
     At his Ring's end[2] he founders in the port.
     With water[3] fill'd, he could no longer float,
     The common death of many a stronger boat.
     A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches:
     Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches.
     And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?)
     Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot.
     With every wind he sail'd, and well could tack:
     Had many pendants, but abhorr'd a Jack.[4]
     He's gone, although his friends began to hope,
     That he might yet be lifted by a rope.
       Behold the awful bench, on which he sat!
     He was as hard and ponderous wood as that:
     Yet when his sand was out, we find at last,
     That death has overset him with a blast.
     Our Boat is now sail'd to the Stygian ferry,
     There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry;
     Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell;
     A trade our Boat[5] has practised here so well:
     And Cerberus has ready in his paws
     Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws.
     Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain
     We may place Boat in his old post again.
     The way is thus: and well deserves your thanks:
     Take the three strongest of his broken planks,
     Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
     Form'd like the triple tree near Stephen's Green:[6]
     And, when we view it thus with thief at end on't,
     We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendant.

     Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin:
     Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing.
     A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder?
     A wooden judge is no such wonder.
     And in his robes you must agree,
     No boat was better deckt than he.
     'Tis needless to describe him fuller;
     In short, he was an able sculler.[7]

     [Footnote 1: A street in Dublin, leading to the harbour.]

     [Footnote 2: A village near the sea.]

     [Footnote 3: It was said he died of a dropsy.]

     [Footnote 4: A cant word for a Jacobite.]

     [Footnote 5: In condemning malefactors, as a judge.]

     [Footnote 6: Where the Dublin gallows stands.]

     [Footnote 7: Query, whether the author meant scholar, and wilfully
     mistook?—Dublin Edition.]

     Libertas et natale solum: [2]
     Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em.
     Could nothing but thy chief reproach
     Serve for a motto on thy coach?
     But let me now the words translate:
     Natale solum, my estate;
     My dear estate, how well I love it,
     My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it,
     They swear I am so kind and good,
     I hug them till I squeeze their blood.
       Libertas bears a large import:
     First, how to swagger in a court;
     And, secondly, to show my fury
     Against an uncomplying jury;
     And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention,
     To favour Wood, and keep my pension;
     And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick,
     Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3]
     And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,)
     To humble that vexatious Dean:
     And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it
     For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4]
     Now since your motto thus you construe,
     I must confess you've spoken once true.
     Libertas et natale solum:     You had good reason when you stole 'em.

     [Footnote 1: That noted chief-justice who twice prosecuted the Drapier,
     and dissolved the grand jury for not finding the bill against him.—F.]

     [Footnote 2: This motto is repeatedly mentioned in the Drapier's
     Letters.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 3: Allan Broderick, Lord Middleton, was then lord-chancellor of
     Ireland. See the Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vi, 135.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.]

     When first the squire and tinker Wood
     Gravely consulting Ireland's good,
     Together mingled in a mass
     Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass;
     The mixture thus by chemic art
     United close in ev'ry part,
     In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces,
     Appear'd like one continued species;
     And, by the forming engine struck,
     On all the same impression took.
       So, to confound this hated coin,
     All parties and religions join;
     Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians,
     Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians,
     Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite,
     With equal interest, equal spite
     Together mingled in a lump,
     Do all in one opinion jump;
     And ev'ry one begins to find
     The same impression on his mind.
       A strange event! whom gold incites
     To blood and quarrels, brass unites;
     So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff
     Will serve for solder well enough:
     So by the kettle's loud alarms
     The bees are gather'd into swarms,
     So by the brazen trumpet's bluster
     Troops of all tongues and nations muster;
     And so the harp of Ireland brings
     Whole crowds about its brazen strings.
       There is a chain let down from Jove,
     But fasten'd to his throne above,
     So strong that from the lower end,
     They say all human things depend.
     This chain, as ancient poets hold,
     When Jove was young, was made of gold,
     Prometheus once this chain purloin'd,
     Dissolved, and into money coin'd;
     Then whips me on a chain of brass;
     (Venus[3] was bribed to let it pass.)
       Now while this brazen chain prevail'd,
     Jove saw that all devotion fail'd;
     No temple to his godship raised;
     No sacrifice on altars blazed;
     In short, such dire confusion follow'd,
     Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd.
     Jove stood amazed; but looking round,
     With much ado the cheat he found;
     'Twas plain he could no longer hold
     The world in any chain but gold;
     And to the god of wealth, his brother,
     Sent Mercury to get another.
       Prometheus on a rock is laid,
     Tied with the chain himself had made,
     On icy Caucasus to shiver,
     While vultures eat his growing liver.

       Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able
     Discreetly to apply this fable;
     Say, who is to be understood
     By that old thief Prometheus?—Wood.
     For Jove, it is not hard to guess him;
     I mean his majesty, God bless him.
     This thief and blacksmith was so bold,
     He strove to steal that chain of gold,
     Which links the subject to the king,
     And change it for a brazen string.
     But sure, if nothing else must pass
     Betwixt the king and us but brass,
     Although the chain will never crack,
     Yet our devotion may grow slack.
       But Jove will soon convert, I hope,
     This brazen chain into a rope;
     With which Prometheus shall be tied,
     And high in air for ever ride;
     Where, if we find his liver grows,
     For want of vultures, we have crows.

     [Footnote 1: Corrected from Swift's own MS. notes.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: To understand this and the following poems on Wood and his
     halfpence, they must be read in connexion with The Drapier's Letters,
     "Prose Works," vol. vi.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: Duchess of Kendal.—Scott.]

     Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few
     Of St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue.
     I must find out another of colour more gay,
     That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey.
     Though the exchequer be drain'd by prodigal donors,
     Yet the king ne'er exhausted his fountain of honours.
     Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit,
     And this will fit men of more money than wit.
     Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands,
     Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes
     And he who'll leap over a stick for the king,
     Is qualified best for a dog in a string.

     [Footnote 1: See Gulliver's Travels, "Prose Works," ii, 40. Also my "Wit
     and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield" and "Life of Lord Chesterfield"
     for a ballad on the order.—W. E. B.]

     Carteret was welcomed to the shore
     First with the brazen cannon's roar;
     To meet him next the soldier comes,
     With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
     Approaching near the town he hears
     The brazen bells salute his ears:
     But when Wood's brass began to sound,
     Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.

     As when of old some sorceress threw
     O'er the moon's face a sable hue,
     To drive unseen her magic chair,
     At midnight, through the darken'd air;
     Wise people, who believed with reason
     That this eclipse was out of season,
     Affirm'd the moon was sick, and fell
     To cure her by a counter spell.
     Ten thousand cymbals now begin,
     To rend the skies with brazen din;
     The cymbals' rattling sounds dispel
     The cloud, and drive the hag to hell.
     The moon, deliver'd from her pain,
     Displays her silver face again.
     Note here, that in the chemic style,
     The moon is silver all this while.
       So (if my simile you minded,
     Which I confess is too long-winded)
     When late a feminine magician,[1]
     Join'd with a brazen politician,[2]
     Exposed, to blind the nation's eyes,
     A parchment[3] of prodigious size;
     Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
     There was no silver to be seen.
     But to this parchment let the Drapier
     Oppose his counter-charm of paper,
     And ring Wood's copper in our ears
     So loud till all the nation hears;
     That sound will make the parchment shrivel
     And drive the conjurors to the Devil;
     And when the sky is grown serene,
     Our silver will appear again.

     [Footnote 1: The Duchess of Kendal, who was to have a share of Wood's
     profits.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, nicknamed Sir Robert Brass, vol. i, p.
     219.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: The patent for coining halfpence.]

     By long observation I have understood,
     That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood.
     The first is an insect they call a wood-louse,
     That folds up itself in itself for a house,
     As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
     Enclosed cap ` pie, 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 wisely has thrown,
     To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone.[1]
     The louse of the wood for a medicine is used
     Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruised.
     And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive
     To swallow Will Wood, either bruised or alive,
     She need be no more with the jaundice possest,
     Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest.
       The next is an insect 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 christen this worm a death-watch;
     Because like a watch it always cries click;
     Then woe be to those in the house who are sick:
     For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost,
     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 sick will recover.
     Such a worm was Will Wood, when he scratch'd at the door
     Of a governing statesman or favourite whore;
     The death of our nation he seem'd to foretell,
     And the sound of his brass we took for our knell.
     But now, since the Drapier has 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[2] in a caldron of oil.
     Then choose which you please, and let each bring a fagot,
     For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.

     [Footnote 1: He was in jail for debt.]

     [Footnote 2: Counterfeit halfpence.]

     Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is,
     Was a mad coppersmith of Elis:
     Up at his forge by morning peep,
     No creature in the lane could sleep;
     Among a crew of roystering fellows
     Would sit 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 polish'd brass 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 crowd 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 see the wicked varlet sprawling;
     They search'd his pockets on the place,
     And found his copper all was base;
     They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder,
     To take the noise of brass for thunder.
       The moral of this tale is proper,
     Applied to Wood's adulterate copper:
     Which, as he scatter'd, we, like dolts,
     Mistook at first for thunderbolts,
     Before the Drapier shot a letter,
     (Nor Jove himself could do it better)
     Which lighting on the impostor's crown,
     Like real thunder knock'd him down.

     [Footnote 1: Who imitated lightning with burning torches and was hurled
     into Tartarus by a thunderbolt from Jupiter.—Hyginus, "Fab."
       "Vidi et crudelis dantem Salmonea poenas
       Dum flammas louis et sonitus imitatur Olympi."

     VIRG., Aen., vi, 585.
     And see the Excursus of Heyne on the passage.—W. E. B.]

       SUPPOSED TO BE MADE, AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN,
       BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNY-MONGER. 1725

         My dear Irish folks,
         Come leave off your jokes,
     And buy up my halfpence so fine;
         So fair and so bright
         They'll give you delight;
     Observe how they glisten and shine!

         They'll sell 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, threepence a score,
         I ask you no more,
     And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.[1]

         When tradesmen have gold,
         The thief will be bold,
     By day and by night for to rob him:
         My copper is such,
         No robber will touch,
     And so you may daintily bob him.

         The little blackguard
         Who gets very hard
     His halfpence for cleaning your shoes:
         When his pockets are cramm'd
         With mine, and be d—d,
     He may swear he has nothing to lose.

         Here's halfpence 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 sudden.

         You will be my thankers,
         I'll make you my bankers,
     As good as Ben Burton or Fade;[2]
         For nothing shall pass
         But my pretty brass,
     And then you'll be all of a trade.

         I'm a son 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 so I conclude my petition.

     [Footnote 1: The Drapier's printer.]

     [Footnote 2: Two famous bankers.]

     Ye people of Ireland, both country and city,
     Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty:
     At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty.
               Which nobody can deny.

     The halfpence are coming, the nation's undoing,
     There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing;
     In short, you must all go to wreck 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 suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men.
               Which, &c.

     The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
     His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day,
     For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
               Which, &c.

     When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
     That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
     And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot.
               Which, &c.

     If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
     And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
     Then dog, rogue, and rascal, and so 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.
               Which, &c.

     The butcher is stout, and he values no swagger;
     A cleaver's a match any time for a dagger,
     And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may stagger.
               Which, &c.

     The beggars themselves will be broke in a trice,
     When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;
     When nothing is left they must live on their lice.
               Which, &c.

     The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year,
     O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear!
     Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I fear.
               Which, &c.

     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 is too wise, he will not take a souse.
               Which, &c.

     The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash,
     For taking these counters and being so rash,
     Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his trash.
               Which, &c.

     For, in all the leases that ever we hold,
     We must pay our rent in good silver and gold,
     And not in brass tokens of such a base mould.
               Which, &c.

     The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant
     No money but silver and gold can be current;
     And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure 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 swapping 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.
               Which, &c.

     Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes!
     I'm sure, by his book, that the writer is wise:
     He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise.
               Which, &c.

     Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case,
     That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,
     Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place.
               Which, &c.

     That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down
     Our subjects so loyal and true to the crown:
     But I hope, after all, that they will be his own.
               Which, &c.

     This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods,
     And a very good book 'tis against Mr. Wood's,
     If you stand true together, he's left in the suds.
               Which, &c.

     Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it,
     For I think in my soul at this time that you need it;
     Or, egad, if you don't, there's an end of your credit.
               Which nobody can deny.

     When foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from slaughter,
     To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water.
     Now, although to draw water is not very good,
     Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
     I own it has often provoked me to mutter,
     That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
     But ancient philosophers wisely remark,
     That old rotten wood will shine 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 forest; nor was it a fiction.
     'Twas cut into fagots and put to the flame,
     To burn an old friar, one Forest by name,
     My tale is a wise 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 speech:
     And said, "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 say hes a birch, a thought very odd;
     For none but a dunce would come under his rod.
     But I'll tell 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 ver-juice;
     And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
     That none are more properly knights of the post,
       But here Mr. Wood complains that we mock,
     Though he may be a blockhead, he's no real block.
     He can eat, drink, and sleep; now and then for a friend
     He'll not be too proud an old kettle to mend;
     He can lie like a courtier, and think it no scorn,
     When golds to be got, to forswear and suborn.
     He can rap his own raps[1] and has the true sapience,
     To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence.
     Then in spite of your sophistry, honest Will Wood
     Is a man of this world, all true flesh and blood;
     So you are but in jest, and you will not, I hope,
     Unman the poor knave for the sake of a trope.
     'Tis a metaphor known to every plain thinker,
     Just as when we say, the devil's a tinker,
     Which cannot, in literal sense be made good,
     Unless by the devil we mean Mr. Wood.
       But some will object that the devil oft spoke,
     In heathenish times, from the trunk of an oak;
     And since we must grant there never were known
     More heathenish times, than those of our own;
     Perhaps you will say, 'tis the devil that puts
     The words in Wood's mouth, or speaks from his guts:
     And then your old arguments still will return;
     Howe'er, let us try him, and see how he'll burn:
     You'll pardon me, sir, your cunning I smoke,
     But Wood, I assure you, is no heart of oak;
     And, instead of the devil, this son of perdition
     Hath join'd with himself two hags in commission.
       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 saint in a niche,
     Bored a large auger-hole in the image's breech;
     But, finding the statue to make no complaint,
     He would ne'er be convinced it was a true saint.
     When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no doubt,
     (For that's but a sham Wood they carry about;[2])
     What stuff he is made of you quickly may find
     If you make the same trial and bore him behind.
     I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum,
     He'll bellow as loud as the de'il 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 show him about for a new groaning board.
       Now ask me a question. How came it to pass
     Wood got so much copper? He got it by brass;
     This brass was a dragon, (observe what I tell ye,)
     This dragon had gotten two sows in his belly;
     I know you will say this is all heathen Greek.
     I own it, and therefore I leave you to seek.
       I often have seen two plays very good,
     Call'd Love in a Tub, and Love in a Wood;
     These comedies twain friend Wood will contrive
     On the scene of this land very soon to revive.
     First, Love in a Tub: Squire Wood has in store
     Strong tubs for his raps, two thousand and more;
     These raps he will honestly dig out with shovels,
     And sell them for gold, or he can't show his love else.
     Wood swears he will do it for Ireland's good,
     Then can you deny it is Love in a Wood?
     However, if critics find fault with the phrase,
     I hope you will own it is Love in a Maze:
     For when to express a friend's love you are willing,
     We never say more than your love is a million;
     But with honest Wood's love there is no contending,
     'Tis fifty round millions of love and a mending.
     Then in his first love why should he be crost?
     I hope he will find that no love is lost.
       Hear one story more, and then I will stop.
     I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop:
     So methought he resolved no liquor to taste,
     For fear the first drop might as well be his last.
     But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em;
     For it proved that he died of a drop at Kilmainham.[3]
     I waked with delight; and not without hope,
     Very soon to see Wood drop down from a rope.
     How he, and how we at each other should grin!
     'Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin.
     But soft! says the herald, I cannot agree;
     For metal on metal is false heraldry.
     Why that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood,
     I'll maintain with my life, is heraldry good.