The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year, O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear! Should he take them, he would not have houseroom, 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 mouse; But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse. Which, &c.

The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash, For taking these counters and being so rash, Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his

trash.

Which, &c.

For, in all the leases that ever we hold,
We must pay our rent in good silver and gold,
And not in brass tokens of such a base mould.

Which, &c.

The wisest of lawyers all swear, they will warrant No money but silver and gold can be current; And, since they will swear it, we all may be sure

on't.

Which, &c.

And I think, after all, it would be very strange,
To give current money for base in exchange,
Like a fine lady swapping her moles for the mange.
Which, &c.

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

Now God bless the Drapier who open'd our eyes!
I'm sure, by his book, that the writer is wise :
He shows us the cheat, from the end to the rise.
Which, &c.

Nay, farther, he shows it a very hard case,
That this fellow Wood, of a very bad race,

Should of all the fine gentry of Ireland take place.
Which, &c.

That he and his halfpence should come to weigh down
Our subjects so 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 'tis against Mr. Wood's,
you stand true together, he's left in the suds.
Which, &c.

If

Ye shopmen, and tradesmen, and farmers, go read it, For I think in my soul at this time that you 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, BRAZIER, TINKER, HARDWAREMAN, COINER, FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRE.

WHEN foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from slaughter,

To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water.
Now, although to draw water is not very good,
Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
Lown it has often provoked me to mutter,
That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
But ancient philosophers wisely remark,

That old rotten wood will shine 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 this idol Wood may do us great evil,

Their gods were of wood, but our Wood is the devil.
To cut down fine wood is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring:
Then, if cutting down wood brings money good store,
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more.

Now hear an old tale. There anciently stood (I forget in what church) an image of wood; Concerning this image, there went a prediction, It would burn a whole forest; nor was it a fiction. 'Twas cut into fagots and put to the flame, To burn an old friar, one Forest by name,

My tale is a wise one, if well understood:
Find you but the Friar; and I'll find the Wood.

I hear, among scholars there is a great doubt,
From what kind of tree this Wood was hewn out,
Teague made a good pun by a brogue in his speech:
And said, "By my shoul, he's the son of a BEECH."
Some call him a thorn, the curse of the nation,
As thorns were design'd to be from the creation.
Some think him cut out from the poisonous yew,
Beneath whose ill shade no plant ever grew.
Some say he's a birch, a thought very odd;
For none but a dunce would come under his rod.
But I'll tell the secret; and pray do not blab:
He is an old stump, cut out of a crab;

And England has put this crab to a hard use,
To cudgel our bones, and for drink give us ver-juice;
And therefore his witnesses justly may boast,
That none are more properly knights of the post.

But here Mr. Wood complains that we mock,
Though he may be a blockhead, he's no real block.
He can eat, drink, and sleep; now and then for a friend
He'll not be too proud an old kettle to mend ;
He can lie like a courtier, and think it no scorn,
When gold's to be got, to forswear and suborn.
He can rap
his own raps, 1 and has the true sapience,
To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence.
Then in spite of your sophistry, honest Will Wood
Is a man of this world, all true flesh and blood;

1 Forge his own bad halfpence.-Scott..

So you are but in jest, and you will not, I hope,
Unman the poor knave for the sake of a trope.
'Tis a metaphor known to every plain thinker,
Just as when we say, the devil's a tinker,
Which cannot, in literal sense be made good,
Unless by the devil we mean Mr. Wood.

But some will object that the devil oft spoke,
In heathenish times, from the trunk of an oak;
And since we must grant there never were known
More heathenish times, than those of our own;
Perhaps you will say, 'tis the devil that puts
The words in Wood's mouth, or speaks from his guts:
And then your old arguments still will return;
Howe'er, let us try him, and see how he'll burn:
You'll pardon me, sir, your cunning I smoke,
But Wood, I assure you, is no heart of oak;
And, instead of the devil, this son of perdition
Hath join'd with himself two hags in commission.

I ne'er could endure my talent to smother: I told you one tale, and I'll tell you another. A joiner to fasten a saint in a niche,

Bored a large auger-hole in the image's breech; But, finding the statue to make no complaint, He would ne'er be convinced it was a true saint. When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no

doubt,

(For that's but a sham Wood they carry about ;') What stuff he is made of you quickly may find

If

you make the same trial and bore him behind. He was burnt in effigy.-Scott.