Tho' a Printer and Dean

Seditioufly mean

Our true Irish Hearts from old England to wean; We'll buy English Silks for our Wives and our

Daughters,

In Spight of his Deanfhip and Journeyman Waters.

II.

In England the Dead in Woollen are clad,

The Dean and his Printer then let us cry Fye on; To be cloath'd like a Carcass would make a Teague mad,

Since a living Dog better is than a dead Lyon,
Our Wives they grow fullen

At wearing of Woollen,

And all we poor Shopkeepers muft our Horns pull in.

Then we'll buy English Silks, &c.

III.

Whoever our Trading with England would hinder, To inflame both the Nations do plainly confpire; Because Irish Linen will foon turn to Tinder; And Wool it is greasy, and quickly takes Fire.

There

Therefore I assure ye,

Our noble Grand Jury,

When they faw the Dean's Book they were in

great Fury:

They would buy English Silks for their Wives, &c.

IV.

This wicked Rogue Waters, who always is finning,

And before Corum Nobus so oft has been call'd, Henceforward fhall print neither Pamphlets nor

Linnen,

And, if Swearing can do't, shall be swingingly mawl'd:

And as for the Dean,

You know whom I mean,

If the Printer will peach him, he'll scarce come

off clean.

Then we'll buy English Silks for our Wives and our Daughters,

In Spight of his Deanfhip and Journeyman Waters.

A SI

A

SIMILE,

ON

Our Want of Silver, and the only Way to remedy it.

A

Written in the Year 1725.

S when of old, fome Sorc'refs threw

O'er the Moon's Face a fable Hue,

To drive unseen her magick Chair,
At Midnight, through the dark'ned Air;
Wife People, who believ'd with Reason
That this Eclipfe was out of Season,
Affirm'd the Moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a Counter-spell :
Ten Thousand Cymbals now begin
To rend the Skies with brazen Din;
The Cymbals rattling Sounds difpell
The Cloud, and drive the Hag to Hell:

The

The Moon, deliver'd from her Pain,

Displays her Silver Face again.

(Note here, that in the Chymick Style, The Moon is Silver all this while.)

So, (if my Simile you minded,
Which, I confess, 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 Size;
Conceal'd behind that ample Screen,
There was no Silver to be feen.
But, to this Parchment let the Draper.
Oppose his Counter-Charm of Paper,
And ring Wood's Copper in our Ears
So loud, till all the Nation hears;

That Sound will make the Parchment fhrivel,
And drive the Conj'rers to the Devil:

And when the Sky is grown ferene,

Our Silver will appear again.

Patent to W. Wood, for coining Half penge.

ON

排隊

ON

WOOD the Iron-monger,

SAL

Written in the Year 1725.

ALMONEUS, 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 fleep.
Among a Crew of royft'ring Fellows
Would fit whole Ev'nings at the Ale-house:
His Wife and Children wanted Bread,
While he went always drunk to Bed,
This vap'ring Scab muft needs devife
To ape the Thunder of the Skies;
With Brafs two fiery Steeds he fhod,
To make a Clatt'ring as they trod.
Of polish't Brass, his flaming Car,
Like Light'ning dazzled from a-far:
And up he mounts into the Box,
And He muft thunder, with a Pox.

Then,