ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER.

1725.

SALMONEUS, as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad coppersmith of Elis:
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep;
Among a crew of roystering fellows
Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse;
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vapouring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies:
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod,
Of polish'd brass 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 squibs and crackers arm'd to throw
Among the trembling crowd 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 see the wicked varlet sprawling;

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,
Applied to Wood's adulterate copper:
Which, as he scatter'd, we, like dolts,
Mistook at first for thunderbolts,
Before the Drapier shot a letter,
(Nor Jove himself could do it better)
Which lighting on the impostor's crown,
Like real thunder knock'd him down.

WILL WOOD'S PETITION TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.

Being an excellent new Song, supposed to be made, and sung in the Streets of Dublin, by William Wood, Ironmonger and Halfpenny-monger. 1725.

My dear Irish folks,

Come leave off your jokes,

And buy up my halfpence so fine;

So fair and so bright,

They'll give you delight;
Observe how they glisten and shine!

They'll sell 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 toss on the knife.

Come hither and try,

I'll teach you to buy

A pot of good ale for a farthing;
Come, threepence a score,

I ask you no more,

And a fig for the Drapier and Harding.1

When tradesmen have gold,

The thief will be bold,

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

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

The little blackguard

Who gets very hard

His halfpence for cleaning your shoes:
When his pockets are cramm'd
With mine, and be d―d,

He may swear he has nothing to lose.

Here's halfpence 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 sudden.

The Drapier's printer.-F.

You will be my thankers,

I'll make you my bankers,
As good as Ben Burton or Fade;'
For nothing shall pass

But my pretty brass,

And then you'll be all of a trade.

To

I'm a son of a whore

If I have a word more

say in this wretched condition.

If

my coin will not pass,

I must die like an ass;

And so I conclude my petition.

A NEW SONG ON WOOD'S HALFPENCE.

YE people of Ireland, both country and city,
Come listen with patience, and hear out my ditty:
At this time I'll choose to be wiser than witty.

Which nobody can deny.

The halfpence are coming, the nation's undoing, There's an end of your ploughing, and baking, and brewing;

In short, you must all go to wreck 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,

1 Two famous bankers.-F.

Will suffer; and this man, and that man, and all men.
Which, &c.

The soldier is ruin'd, poor man! by his pay;
His fivepence will prove but a farthing a-day,
For meat, or for drink; or he must run away.
Which, &c.

When he pulls out his twopence, the tapster says not,
That ten times as much he must pay for his shot;
And thus the poor soldier must soon go to pot.
Which, &c.

If he goes to the baker, the baker will huff,
And twentypence have for a twopenny loaf,
Then dog, rogue, and rascal, and so 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 stout, and he values no swagger;
A cleaver's a match any time for a dagger,
And a blue sleeve may give such a cuff as may

stagger.

Which, &c.

The beggars themselves will be broke in a trice, When thus their poor farthings are sunk in their price;

When nothing is left they must live on their lice. Which, &c.