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Expos’d, to blind the nation's eyes,
On WOOD the Iron-monger.
Written in the Year 1725.
as the Grecian tale is, Was a mad copper-smith of Elis; Up at his forge by morning peep, No creature in the lane could sleep. Among a crew of royst’ring fellows Would fit whole ev’nings at the alehouse: His wife and children wanted bread, While he went always drunk to bed.
† A patent to William Wood, for coining half-pence.
This vap’ring scab must needs devise
the thunder of the skies :
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 adulter'd copper: Which, as he scatter'd, we like dolts Miltook at first for thunder-bolts ;
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
Written in the Year 1725.
BY Y long observation I have understood,
That two little vermin are kin to
Will Wood. The first is an insect they call a wood-louse, That folds up itself in itself for a house: As round as a ball, without head, without
tail, Inclos'd cap-a-pe in a strong coat of mail. And thus William Wood to my fancy ap
pears In fillets of brass roll’d up to his ears : Andover these fillets he wisely has thrown, To keep out of danger, * a doublet of stone, The louse of the wood for a med'cine is
us’d, Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruis’d.
* He was in jail for debt.
And let but our mother Hibernia contrive
sest, Or fick of obstructions, 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 scratch, And chambermaids christen this worm a
death-watch; Because like a watch it always cries click: Then woe be to those in the house who are
For, as sure as a gun, they will give up
the ghost, If the maggot cries click, when it scratches
But a kettle of scalding hot water injected
Such a worm was Will Wood, when he
scratch'd at the door Of a governing statesman or favourite
whore : The death of our nation he seem'd to foretel, And the sound of his brass we took for our
knell. But now, since the Drapier hath heartily
mauld him, I think the best thing we can do is to scald
him. For which operation there's nothing more
proper Than the liquor he deals in, his own melt
ed copper ; Unless, like the Dutch, you rather wouldboil This coiner of traps in a cauldron of oil. Then chuse which you please, and let each
bring a faggot, For our fear's at an end with the death of
† A cant word in Ireland for a counterfeit half-penny.