Ten thousand cymbals now begin
To rend the fkies with brazen din;
The cymbals' rattling founds difpel
The cloud, and drive the hag to hell.
The moon, deliver'd from her pain,
Displays her filver face again.
Note here, that in the chemic ftyle,
The moon is filver all this while.
So (if my fimile you minded,
Which I confefs is too long-winded)
When late a feminine magician*,
Join'd with a brazen politician,
Expos'd to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment † of prodigious fize;
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 fhrivel,
And drive the conjurors to the devil:
And when the fky is grown ferene,..
Our filver will appear again.
A great Lady was faid to have been brib'd by Wood.
The patent for coining half-pence.
WOOD AN INSECT. 1725.
BY long obfervation I have understood,
That two little vermin are kin to Will Wood.
The first is an infect they call a wood-loufe,
That folds up itself in itself for a house,
As round as a ball, without head, without tail,
Inclos'd cap-a-pé in a strong coat of mail.
And thus William Wood to my fancy appears
In fillets of brafs roll'd up to his ears:
And over these fillets he wifely has thrown,
To keep out of danger, a doublet of ftone *.
The loufe of the wood for a medicine is us'd,
Or fwallow'd alive, or fkilfully bruis'd.
And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive
To fwallow Will Wood either bruis'd or alive,
She need be no more with the jaundice poffeft,
Or fick of obftructions, and pains in her 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 fcratch, And chambermaids chriften this worm a death
Becaufe like a watch it always cries click:
Then woe be to thofe 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 poft.
But a kettle of scalding hot water injected
Infallibly cures the timber affected :
• He was in gaol for debt.
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 fcratch'd at the door
Of a governing ftatefinan or favourite whore:
The death of our nation he feem'd to foretell,
And the found of his brass we took for our knell.
But now, fince the Drapier has heartily maul'd him,
I think the best thing we can do is to fcald 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 choose which you please, and let each bring a faggot,
For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.
SALMONEUS, as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad copper-fmith of Elis;
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could fieep;
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
the thunder of the fkies :
With brass two fiery fteeds he fhod,
To make a clattering as they trod.
Of polifh'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 fquibs 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 fprawling ; They fearch'd his pockets on the place, And found his copper all was base; They laugh'd at fuch an Irifh blunder, To take the noise of brass for thunder..
The moral of this tale is
Apply'd to Wood's adulter'd copper:
Which, as he fcatter'd, we like dolts
Miftook at firft for thunder-bolts,
Before the Drapier fhot a letter,
(Nor Jove himfelf 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, fuppofed to be made and fung in the Streets of DUBLIN, by WILLIAM WOOD, Ironmonger and Half-penny-monger.
Come leave off your jokes,
And buy up my half-pence fo fine;
So fair and fo bright,
They'll give you delight; Obferve, how they gliften and fhine!
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 tofs 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
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