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 nobody can deny.
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 nobody can deny.
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 nobody can deny.
And I think, after all, it would be very strange,
To give current money for base in exchange,
Like a fine lady swopping 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 sure, by his book, that the writer is wise:
He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise.
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.
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 nobody can deny.
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 nobody can deny.
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.
A SERIOUS POEM UPON WILLIAM WOOD,
BRAZIER, TINKER, HARDWAREMAN, COINER, FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRf. 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,
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 he's 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 verjuice;
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 gold's to be got, to forswear and suborn.
He can rap his own raps, 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,1) 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 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 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 cross'd?
I hope he will find that no love is lost.
Here 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.'
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.
UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPence.
To the tune of "London is a Fine Town," &c.
O DUBLIN is a fine town
And a gallant city,
For Wood's trash is tumbled down,
Come listen to my ditty.
O Dublin is a fine town, &c.
In full assembly all did meet
Of every corporation,
From every lane and every street,
To save the sinking nation.
O Dublin, &c.
The bankers would not let it pass
For to be Wood's tellers,
Instead of gold to count his brass,
And fill their small-beer cellars.
O Dublin, &c.
And next to them, to take his coin
The Gild would not submit,
They all did go, and all did join,
And so their names they writ.
O Dublin, &c.
The brewers met within their hall,
And spoke in lofty strains,
These halfpence shall not pass at all,
They want so many grains.
The tailors came upon this pinch,
And wish'd the dog in hell,
Should we give this same Woods an inch,
We know he'd take an ell.
O Dublin, &c.
But now the noble clothiers
Of honor and renown,
If they take Wood's halfpence
They will be all cast down.
O Dublin, &c.
The shoemakers came on the next,
And said they would much rather,
Than be by Wood's copper vext,
Take money stamp'd on leather.
O Dublin, &c.
The chandlers next in order came,
And what they said was right,
They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme
Would soon be brought to light.
And that if Woods were now withstood,
To his eternal scandal,
That twenty of these halfpence should
Not buy a farthing candle.
O Dublin, &c.
The butchers then, those men so brave,
Spoke thus, and with a frown;
Should Woods, that cunning scoundrel knave.
Come here, we'd knock him down.
The bakers in a ferment were,
And wisely shook their head:
Should these brass tokens once come here, We'd all have lost our bread.
It set the very tinkers mad,
The baseness of the metal,
Because, they said, it was so bad
It would not mend a kettle.
O Dublin, &c.
The carpenters and joiners stood
Confounded in a maze,
They seem'd to be all in a wood,
And so they went their ways.
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