When tradesmen have gold, The thief will be bold, By day and by night for to rob him: No robber will touch, The little black-guard, Who gets very hard His half-pence for cleaning your shoes: 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 When your pocket cries chink, You are grown plaguy rich on a fudden. You will be my thankers, I'll make you my bankers, 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, Which, &c. Again, to the market whenever he goes, Which, &c. The Butcher is ftout, and he values no fwagger; 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, 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, Which, &c. For, in all the leafes that ever we hold, Which, &c. The wifest of Lawyers all fwear, they will warrant And I think, after all, it would be very ftrange, Which, &c. you will find, But read the king's patent, and there Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes! Which, &c. Nay, farther he fhews it a very hard cafe, Which, &c. That That he and his half-pence fhould come to weigh down Our fubjects fo loyal and true to the crown; This book, I do tell you, is writ for your goods, 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, That old rotten Wood will fhine in the dark. But |