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 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 of 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.

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 house-room 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 swooping her moles for the mange.
Whcih, &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 Woods,
If you stand true together, he's left in the suds,
Which, &c.

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.

VOL. X.

2 H

A SERIOUS POEM

UPON WILLIAM WOOD,

BRASIER, TINKER, HARDWAREMAN, COINER, FOUNDER, AND ESQUIRE.

[The two passages within crotchets, which do not occur in for. mer editions of the Dean's works, are added from the original broadside copy.]

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.
I own 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 faggots 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 designed 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 verjuice;

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*, and has the true sa-
pience,

To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence.

Forge his own bad halfpence.