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 stuck.
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 int'rest, 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'alarm
The bees are gather'd to a swarm :
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 was bribed to let it pass.)
* A great lady was said to have been bribed by Wood. N.
Now while this brazen chain prevail'd,
Jove saw that all devotion fail'd;
No temple to his godship raised;
No sacrifice at 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 a chain himself had made,
On icy Caucasus to shiver,
While vultures eat his growing liver.
Ye pow'rs 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
Between 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,
ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 1725.
SALMONEUS, 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 alshouse:
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vapouring scab must needs devise
Το 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,
Apply'd 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 th' impostor's crown,
Like real thunder knock'd him down.
WILL WOOD'S PETITION
TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.
BEING AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, SUPPOSED TO BE MADE AND SUNG IN THE STREETS OF DUBLIN, BY WILLIAM WOOD, IRONMONGER AND HALFPENNYMONGER. 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 neckbeef,
For counters at cards to your wife:
And every day
Your children may play
Spanfarthing, 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*.
When tradesmen have gold,
The thief will be bold,
By day and by night for to rob him:
*The Drapier's printer. F.
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 *
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,
A NEW SONG
ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE.
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.
Two famous bankers. F.
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