When tradesmen have gold,

The thief will be bold,

By day and by night for to rob him:
My copper is fuch,

No robber will touch,
And fo you may daintily bob him.

The little black-guard,

Who gets very hard

His half-pence for cleaning your shoes:
When his pockets are cramm'd
With mine and be d-'d,

He

may fwear he has nothing to lose.

Here's half-pence 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 fudden.

You will be my thankers,

I'll make you my bankers,
As good as Ben Burton or Fade* :

For nothing fhall pafs

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 muft die like an ass;

And fo I conclude my petition,

Two famous bankers.

3

A NEW

A NEW SONG

ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE.

YE people of Ireland, both country and city, Come liften with patience, and hear out my

ditty:

At this time I'll chufe to be wifer than witty.

Which nobody can deny.

The Half-pence are coming, the nation's undoing, There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and

brewing;

In fhort, you must all go to rack 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 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. Which, &c.

When he pulls out his two pence, the Tapfter fays

not,

That ten times as much he muft pay for his fhot;

And thus the poor Soldier muft 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.

Which, &c.

The Butcher is ftout, and he values no fwagger;
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 Which, &c.

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 houfe-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

moufe;

But the Squire's too wife, he will not take a fouse.

Which, &c.

The

The Farmer, who comes with his rent in this cafh,
For taking thefe counters, and being fo rafh,
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 brafs tokens of fuch a bafe mold.

Which, &c.

The wifest of Lawyers all fwear, they will warrant
No money but filver and gold can be current ;
And, fince they will fwear it, we all may be fure on't.
Which, &c.

And I think, after all, it would be very ftrange,
To give current money for bafe in exchange,
Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange.

Which, &c.

you

will find,

But read the king's patent, and there
That no man need take them but who has a mind,
For which we must say that his Majefty's kind.
Which, &c.

Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes!
I'm fure, by his book, that the writer is wife:
He fhews us the cheat, from the end to the rife.

Which, &c.

Nay, farther he fhews it a very hard cafe,
That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,
Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place.

Which, &c.

That

That he and his half-pence fhould come to weigh

down

Our fubjects fo 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 against Mr. Wood's;
you stand true together, he's left in the fuds.

If

Which, &c.

you

Ye Shop-men and Trades-men and Farmers,go read it, For I think in my foul at this time that 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, Brafier, Tinker, Hardwareman, Coiner, Founder, and Efquire.

WHEN foes are o'ercome, we preferve them from

flaughter,

To be hewers of Wood, and drawers of water,
Now, although to draw water is not very good;
Yet we all fhould rejoice to be hewers of Wood,
I own, it has often provok'd me to mutter,
That a rogue fo obfcure should make fuch 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