BOOK III

, ODE II

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716

These spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment.--_Scott._ See Moral Essays, Epistle V, Pope's "Works," edit. Elwin and Courthope, iii, 191.--_W. E. B._

How blest is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies! The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour shine; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die, for meriting to live. Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me: For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And though the villain’scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH

High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed; And Eyres and Delaune, And the rest of that spawn, Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum, That _decoctum amarum_, Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; Which will make them resign Their flasks of French wine, And spice up their Nottingham ale.

It purges the spleen Of dislike to the queen, And has one effect that is odder; When easement they use, They always will chuse The Conformity Bill for bumfodder.

A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED

Not asking or expecting aught, One day I went to view the court, Unbent and free from care or thought, Though thither fears and hopes resort.

A piece of tapestry took my eye, The faded colours spoke it old; But wrought with curious imagery, The figures lively seem'd and bold.

Here you might see the youth prevail, (In vain are eloquence and wit,) The boy persists, Apollo's frail; Wisdom to nature does submit.

There mounts the eager charioteer; Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; Here Jove in anger doth appear, There all, beneath, the flaming world.

What does this idle fiction mean? Is truth at court in such disgrace, It may not on the walls be seen, Nor e'en in picture show its face?

No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale, By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1] It does important truths conceal, And here was placed by wise design.

A lesson deep with learning fraught, Worthy the cabinet of kings; Fit subject of their constant thought, In matchless verse the poet sings.

Well should he weigh, who does aspire To empire, whether truly great, His head, his heart, his hand, conspire To make him equal to that seat.

If only fond desire of sway, By avarice or ambition fed, Make him affect to guide the day, Alas! what strange confusion's bred!

If, either void of princely care, Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein; If rising heats or mad career, Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain:

Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose, In wanton pride to show his skill, How easily he can reduce And curb the people's rage at will;

In wild uproar they hurry on;-- The great, the good, the just, the wise, (Law and religion overthrown,) Are first mark'd out for sacrifice.

When, to a height their fury grown, Finding, too late, he can't retire, He proves the real Phaethon, And truly sets the world on fire.

[Footnote 1: "Metamorphoseon," lib. ii.]

A TALE OF A NETTLE[1]

A man with expense and infinite toil, By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil; There fruits of the best your taste did invite, And uniform order still courted the sight. No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce, But all things afforded both beauty and use: Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed, A nettle rear'd up his inglorious head. The gard'ner would wisely have rooted him up, To stop the increase of a barbarous crop; But the master forbid him, and after the fashion Of foolish good nature, and blind moderation, Forbore him through pity, and chose as much rather, To ask him some questions first, how he came thither. Kind sir, quoth the nettle, a stranger I come, For conscience compell'd to relinquish my home, 'Cause I wouldn't subscribe to a mystery dark, That the prince of all trees is the Jesuit's bark,[2] An erroneous tenet I know, sir, that you, No more than myself, will allow to be true. To you, I for refuge and sanctuary sue, There's none so renown'd for compassion as you; And, though in some things I may differ from these, The rest of your fruitful and beautiful trees; Though your digging and dunging, my nature much harms, And I cannot comply with your garden in forms: Yet I and my family, after our fashion, Will peaceably stick to our own education. Be pleased to allow them a place for to rest 'em, For the rest of your trees we will never molest 'em; A kind shelter to us and protection afford, We'll do you no harm, sir, I'll give you my word. The good man was soon won by this plausible tale, So fraud on good-nature doth often prevail. He welcomes his guest, gives him free toleration In the midst of his garden to take up his station, And into his breast doth his enemy bring, He little suspected the nettle could sting. 'Till flush'd with success, and of strength to be fear'd, Around him a numerous offspring he rear'd. Then the master grew sensible what he had done, And fain he would have his new guest to be gone; But now 'twas too late to bid him turn out, A well rooted possession already was got. The old trees decay'd, and in their room grew A stubborn, pestilent, poisonous crew. The master, who first the young brood had admitted, They stung like ingrates, and left him unpitied. No help from manuring or planting was found, The ill weeds had eat out the heart of the ground. All weeds they let in, and none they refuse That would join to oppose the good man of the house. Thus one nettle uncropp'd, increased to such store, That 'twas nothing but weeds what was garden before.

[Footnote 1: These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test Act, and may be compared with the "Fable of the Bitches," _ante_, p.181.]

[Footnote 2: In allusion to the supremacy of Rome.--_Scott_.]

A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL[1]

His Grace! impossible! what, dead! Of old age too, and in his bed! And could that mighty warrior fall, And so inglorious, after all? Well, since he's gone, no matter how, The last loud trump must wake him now; And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, He'd wish to sleep a little longer. And could he be indeed so old As by the newspapers we're told? Threescore, I think, is pretty high; 'Twas time in conscience he should die! This world he cumber'd long enough; He burnt his candle to the snuff; And that's the reason, some folks think, He left behind so great a stink. Behold his funeral appears, Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears, Wont at such times each heart to pierce, Attend the progress of his hearse. But what of that? his friends may say, He had those honours in his day. True to his profit and his pride, He made them weep before he died. Come hither, all ye empty things! Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings! Who float upon the tide of state; Come hither, and behold your fate! Let Pride be taught by this rebuke, How very mean a thing's a duke; From all his ill-got honours flung, Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung.[2]

[Footnote 1: The Duke of Marlborough died on the 16th June, 1722.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: See the "Fable of Midas," _ante_, p. 150; and The Examiner, "Prose Works," ix, 95.--_W. E. B._]

POEMS CHIEFLY RELATING TO IRISH POLITICS

PARODY ON THE SPEECH OF DR. BENJAMIN PRATT,[1] PROVOST OF TRINITY COLLEGE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES

Illustrious prince, we're come before ye, Who, more than in our founders, glory To be by you protected; Deign to descend and give us laws, For we are converts to your cause, From this day well-affected.[2]

The noble view of your high merits Has charm'd our thoughts and fix'd our spirits, With zeal so warm and hearty; That we resolved to be devoted, At least until we be promoted, By your just power and party.

Urged by a passionate desire Of being raised a little higher, From lazy cloister'd life; We cannot flatter you nor fawn, But fain would honour'd be with lawn, And settled by a wife.[3]

For this we have before resorted, Paid levees[4] punctually, and courted, Our charge at home long quitting, But now we're come just in the nick, Upon a vacant[5] bishopric, This bait can't fail of hitting.

Thus, sir, you see how much affection, Not interest, sways in this election, But sense of loyal duty. For you surpass all princes far, As glow-worms do exceed a star, In goodness, wit, and beauty.

To you our Irish Commons owe That wisdom which their actions show, Their principles from ours springs, Taught, ere the deel himself could dream on't, That of their illustrious house a stem on't, Should rise the best of kings.

The glad presages with our eyes Behold a king, chaste, vigilant, and wise, In foreign fields victorious, Who in his youth the Turks attacks, And [made] them still to turn their backs; Was ever king so glorious?

Since Ormond’s like a traitor gone, We scorn to do what some have done, For learning much more famous;[6] Fools may pursue their adverse fate, And stick to the unfortunate; We laugh while they condemn us.

For, being of that gen'rous mind, To success we are still inclined, And quit the suffering side, If on our friends cross planets frown, We join the cry, and hunt them down, And sail with wind and tide.

Hence 'twas this choice we long delay'd, Till our rash foes the rebels fled, Whilst fortune held the scale; But [since] they're driven like mist before you, Our rising sun, we now adore you, Because you now prevail.

Descend then from your lofty seat, Behold th' attending Muses wait With us to sing your praises; Calliope now strings up her lyre, And Clio[7] Phoebus does inspire, The theme their fancy raises.

If then our nursery you will nourish, We and our Muses too will flourish, Encouraged by your favour; We'll doctrines teach the times to serve, And more five thousand pounds deserve, By future good behaviour.

Now take our harp into your hand, The joyful strings, at your command, In doleful sounds no more shall mourn. We, with sincerity of heart, To all your tunes shall bear a part, Unless we see the tables turn.

If so, great sir, you will excuse us, For we and our attending Muses May live to change our strain; And turn, with merry hearts, our tune, Upon some happy tenth of June, To "the king enjoys his own again."

[Footnote 1: Dr. Pratt's speech, which is here parodied, was made when the Duke of Ormond, Swift's valued friend, was attainted, and superseded in the office of chancellor of Trinity College, which he had held from 1688-9, by the Prince of Wales, afterwards George II.

There is great reason to suppose that the satire is the work of Swift, whose attachment to Ormond was uniformly ardent. Of this it may be worth while to mention a trifling instance. The duke had presented to the cathedral of St. Patrick's a superb organ, surmounted by his own armorial bearings. It was placed facing the nave of the church. But after Ormond's attainder, Swift, as Dean of St. Patrick's, received orders from government to remove the scutcheon from the church. He obeyed, but he placed the shield in the great aisle, where he himself and Stella lie buried, and where the arms still remain. The verses have suffered much by the inaccuracy of the noble transcriber, Lord Newtoun Butler.

The original speech will be found in the London Gazette of Tuesday, April 17, 1716, and Scott's edition of Swift, vol. xii, p. 352. The Provost, it appears, was attended by the Rev. Dr. Howard, and Mr. George Berkeley, (afterwards Bishop of Cloyne,) both of them fellows of Trinity College, Dublin. The speech was praised by Addison, in the Freeholder, No. 33.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: The Rev. Dr. Pratt had been formerly of the Tory party; to which circumstance the phrase, "from this day well-affected," alludes.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 3: The statutes of the university enjoin celibacy.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 4: The provost was a most constant attendant at the levees at St. James's palace.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: The see of Killaloe was then vacant, and to this bishopric the Reverend Dr. George Carr, chaplain to the Irish House of Commons, was nominated, by letters-patent.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 6: Alluding to the sullen silence of Oxford upon the accession.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.--_Scott._]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG[1] ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720-21

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."

Brocades, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes, Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over, With forty things more: now hear what the law says, Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover. Though a printer and Dean, Seditiously mean, Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean, We'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad, The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on; To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad, Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. Our wives they grow sullen At wearing of woollen, And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

Whoever our trading with England would hinder, To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire, Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder, And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire. Therefore, I assure ye, Our noble grand jury, When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury; They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters, In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, And before _coram nobis_ so oft has been call'd, Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen, And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly maul'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 spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

[Footnote 1: This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of Irish Manufactures," for which the printer was prosecuted with great violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict. See Swift's Letter to Pope, Jan. 1721, and "Prose Works," vii, 13.--_W. E. B._]

THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS[1]

The bold encroachers on the deep Gain by degrees huge tracts of land, Till Neptune, with one general sweep, Turns all again to barren strand.

The multitude's capricious pranks Are said to represent the seas, Breaking the bankers and the banks, Resume their own whene'er they please.

Money, the life-blood of the nation, Corrupts and stagnates in the veins, Unless a proper circulation Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay, Quakers and aldermen in state, Like peers, have levees every day Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail; The banker's ruin'd if he pays: They seem to act an ancient tale; The birds are met to strip the jays.

"Riches," the wisest monarch sings, "Make pinions for themselves to fly;"[2] They fly like bats on parchment wings, And geese their silver plumes supply.

No money left for squandering heirs! Bills turn the lenders into debtors: The wish of Nero[3] now is theirs, "That they had never known their letters."

Conceive the works of midnight hags, Tormenting fools behind their backs: Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags, Sit squeezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke; The witches left in open air, With power no more than other folk, Exposed with all their magic ware.

So powerful are a banker's bills, Where creditors demand their due; They break up counters, doors, and tills, And leave the empty chests in view.

Thus when an earthquake lets in light Upon the god of gold and hell, Unable to endure the sight, He hides within his darkest cell.

As when a conjurer takes a lease From Satan for a term of years, The tenant's in a dismal case, Whene'er the bloody bond appears.

A baited banker thus desponds, From his own hand foresees his fall, They have his soul, who have his bonds; 'Tis like the writing on the wall.[4]

How will the caitiff wretch be scared, When first he finds himself awake At the last trumpet, unprepared, And all his grand account to make!

For in that universal call, Few bankers will to heaven be mounters; They'll cry, "Ye shops, upon us fall! Conceal and cover us, ye counters!"

When other hands the scales shall hold, And they, in men's and angels' sight Produced with all their bills and gold, "Weigh'd in the balance and found light!"

[Footnote 1: This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was therefore thought fit to be reprinted.--_Dublin Edition_, 1734.]

[Footnote 2: Solomon, Proverbs, ch. xxiii, v. 5.]

[Footnote 3: Who, in his early days of empire, having to sign the sentence of a condemned criminal, exclaimed: "Quam vellem nescire litteras!" Suetonius, 10; and Seneca, "De Clementia,", cited by Montaigne, "De l'inconstance de nos actions."--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Daniel, ch. v, verses 25, 26, 27, 28.--_W. E. B._]

UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER'S FRENCH DOG,[1] IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A WHIG AND A TORY

I ask'd a Whig the other night, How came this wicked plot to light? He answer'd, that a dog of late Inform'd a minister of state. Said I, from thence I nothing know; For are not all informers so? A villain who his friend betrays, We style him by no other phrase; And so a perjured dog denotes Porter, and Pendergast, and Oates, And forty others I could name. WHIG. But you must know this dog was lame. TORY. A weighty argument indeed! Your evidence was lame:--proceed: Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile. WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this while: I mean a dog (without a joke) Can howl, and bark, but never spoke. TORY. I'm still to seek, which dog you mean; Whether cur Plunkett, or whelp Skean,[2] An English or an Irish hound; Or t'other puppy, that was drown'd; Or Mason, that abandon'd bitch: Then pray be free, and tell me which: For every stander-by was marking, That all the noise they made was barking. You pay them well, the dogs have got Their dogs-head in a porridge-pot: And 'twas but just; for wise men say, That every dog must have his day. Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't, He'd either make a hog or dog on't; And look'd, since he has got his wish, As if he had thrown down a dish, Yet this I dare foretell you from it, He'll soon return to his own vomit. WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found By Neynoe, after he was drown'd. TORY. Why then the proverb is not right, Since you can teach dead dogs to bite. WHIG. I proved my proposition full: But Jacobites are strangely dull. Now, let me tell you plainly, sir, Our witness is a real cur, A dog of spirit for his years; Has twice two legs, two hanging ears; His name is Harlequin, I wot, And that's a name in every plot: Resolved to save the British nation, Though French by birth and education; His correspondence plainly dated, Was all decipher'd and translated: His answers were exceeding pretty, Before the secret wise committee; Confest as plain as he could bark: Then with his fore-foot set his mark. TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled, I thought it was a dog in doublet: The matter now no longer sticks: For statesmen never want dog-tricks. But since it was a real cur, And not a dog in metaphor, I give you joy of the report, That he's to have a place at court. WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in; A turnspit in the royal kitchen. Sir, to be plain, I tell you what, We had occasion for a plot; And when we found the dog begin it, We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it. TORY. I own it was a dangerous project, And you have proved it by dog-logic. Sure such intelligence between A dog and bishop ne'er was seen, Till you began to change the breed; Your bishops are all dogs indeed!

[Footnote 1: In Atterbury's trial a good deal of stress was laid upon the circumstance of a "spotted little dog" called Harlequin being mentioned in the intercepted correspondence. The dog was sent in a present to the bishop from Paris, and its leg was broken by the way. See "State Trials," xvi, 320 and 376-7.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: John Kelly, and Skin, or Skinner, were persons engaged in the plot. Neynoe, whose declaration was taken before the lords of council, and used in evidence against the bishop, is "t'other puppy that was drown'd," which was his fate in attempting to escape from the messengers.]

A QUIBBLING ELEGY ON JUDGE BOAT 1723

To mournful ditties, Clio, change thy note, Since cruel fate has sunk our Justice Boat; Why should he sink, where nothing seem'd to press His lading little, and his ballast less? Tost in the waves of this tempestuous world, At length, his anchor fix'd and canvass furl'd, To Lazy-hill[1] retiring from his court, At his Ring's end[2] he founders in the port. With water[3] fill'd, he could no longer float, The common death of many a stronger boat. A post so fill'd on nature's laws entrenches: Benches on boats are placed, not boats on benches. And yet our Boat (how shall I reconcile it?) Was both a Boat, and in one sense a pilot. With every wind he sail'd, and well could tack: Had many pendants, but abhorr'd a Jack.[4] He's gone, although his friends began to hope, That he might yet be lifted by a rope. Behold the awful bench, on which he sat! He was as hard and ponderous wood as that: Yet when his sand was out, we find at last, That death has overset him with a blast. Our Boat is now sail'd to the Stygian ferry, There to supply old Charon's leaky wherry; Charon in him will ferry souls to Hell; A trade our Boat[5] has practised here so well: And Cerberus has ready in his paws Both pitch and brimstone, to fill up his flaws. Yet, spite of death and fate, I here maintain We may place Boat in his old post again. The way is thus: and well deserves your thanks: Take the three strongest of his broken planks, Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen, Form'd like the triple tree near Stephen's Green:[6] And, when we view it thus with thief at end on't, We'll cry; look, here's our Boat, and there's the pendant.

THE EPITAPH

Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin: Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing. A Boat a judge! yes; where's the blunder? A wooden judge is no such wonder. And in his robes you must agree, No boat was better deckt than he. 'Tis needless to describe him fuller; In short, he was an able sculler.[7]

[Footnote 1: A street in Dublin, leading to the harbour.]

[Footnote 2: A village near the sea.]

[Footnote 3: It was said he died of a dropsy.]

[Footnote 4: A cant word for a Jacobite.]

[Footnote 5: In condemning malefactors, as a judge.]

[Footnote 6: Where the Dublin gallows stands.]

[Footnote 7: Query, whether the author meant scholar, and wilfully mistook?--_Dublin Edition._]

VERSES OCCASIONED BY WHITSHED'S [1] MOTTO ON HIS COACH. 1724

Libertas _et natale solum:_ [2] Fine words! I wonder where you stole 'em. Could nothing but thy chief reproach Serve for a motto on thy coach? But let me now the words translate: _Natale solum_, my estate; My dear estate, how well I love it, My tenants, if you doubt, will prove it, They swear I am so kind and good, I hug them till I squeeze their blood. _Libertas_ bears a large import: First, how to swagger in a court; And, secondly, to show my fury Against an uncomplying jury; And, thirdly, 'tis a new invention, To favour Wood, and keep my pension; And, fourthly, 'tis to play an odd trick, Get the great seal and turn out Broderick;[3] And, fifthly, (you know whom I mean,) To humble that vexatious Dean: And, sixthly, for my soul to barter it For fifty times its worth to Carteret.[4] Now since your motto thus you construe, I must confess you've spoken once true. _Libertas et natale solum:_ You had good reason when you stole 'em.

[Footnote 1: That noted chief-justice who twice prosecuted the Drapier, and dissolved the grand jury for not finding the bill against him.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: This motto is repeatedly mentioned in the Drapier's Letters.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: Allan Broderick, Lord Middleton, was then lord-chancellor of Ireland. See the Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vi, 135.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.]

PROMETHEUS[1] ON WOOD THE PATENTEE'S IRISH HALFPENCE[2] 1724

When first the squire and tinker Wood Gravely consulting Ireland's good, Together mingled in a mass Smith's dust, and copper, lead, and brass; The mixture thus by chemic art United close in ev'ry part, In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces, Appear'd like one continued species; And, by the forming engine struck, On all the same impression took. So, to confound this hated coin, All parties and religions join; Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians, Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians, Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite, With equal interest, equal spite Together mingled in a lump, Do all in one opinion jump; And ev'ry one begins to find The same impression on his mind. A strange event! whom gold incites To blood and quarrels, brass unites; So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff Will serve for solder well enough: So by the kettle's loud alarms The bees are gather'd into swarms, So by the brazen trumpet's bluster Troops of all tongues and nations muster; And so the harp of Ireland brings Whole crowds about its brazen strings. There is a chain let down from Jove, But fasten'd to his throne above, So strong that from the lower end, They say all human things depend. This chain, as ancient poets hold, When Jove was young, was made of gold, Prometheus once this chain purloin'd, Dissolved, and into money coin'd; Then whips me on a chain of brass; (Venus[3] was bribed to let it pass.) Now while this brazen chain prevail'd, Jove saw that all devotion fail'd; No temple to his godship raised; No sacrifice on altars blazed; In short, such dire confusion follow'd, Earth must have been in chaos swallow'd. Jove stood amazed; but looking round, With much ado the cheat he found; 'Twas plain he could no longer hold The world in any chain but gold; And to the god of wealth, his brother, Sent Mercury to get another. Prometheus on a rock is laid, Tied with the chain himself had made, On icy Caucasus to shiver, While vultures eat his growing liver.

Ye powers of Grub-Street, make me able Discreetly to apply this fable; Say, who is to be understood By that old thief Prometheus?--Wood. For Jove, it is not hard to guess him; I mean his majesty, God bless him. This thief and blacksmith was so bold, He strove to steal that chain of gold, Which links the subject to the king, And change it for a brazen string. But sure, if nothing else must pass Betwixt the king and us but brass, Although the chain will never crack, Yet our devotion may grow slack. But Jove will soon convert, I hope, This brazen chain into a rope; With which Prometheus shall be tied, And high in air for ever ride; Where, if we find his liver grows, For want of vultures, we have crows.

[Footnote 1: Corrected from Swift's own MS. notes.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: To understand this and the following poems on Wood and his halfpence, they must be read in connexion with The Drapier's Letters, "Prose Works," vol. vi.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Duchess of Kendal.--_Scott_.]

VERSES ON THE REVIVAL OF THE ORDER OF THE BATH,[1] DURING WALPOLE'S ADMINISTRATION, A. D. 1725

Quoth King Robin, our ribbons I see are too few Of St. Andrew's the green, and St. George's the blue. I must find out another of colour more gay, That will teach all my subjects with pride to obey. Though the exchequer be drain'd by prodigal donors, Yet the king ne'er exhausted his fountain of honours. Men of more wit than money our pensions will fit, And this will fit men of more money than wit. Thus my subjects with pleasure will obey my commands, Though as empty as Younge, and as saucy as Sandes And he who'll leap over a stick for the king, Is qualified best for a dog in a string.

[Footnote 1: See Gulliver's Travels, "Prose Works," ii, 40. Also my "Wit and Wisdom of Lord Chesterfield" and "Life of Lord Chesterfield" for a ballad on the order.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM ON WOOD'S BRASS MONEY

Carteret was welcomed to the shore First with the brazen cannon's roar; To meet him next the soldier comes, With brazen trumps and brazen drums; Approaching near the town he hears The brazen bells salute his ears: But when Wood's brass began to sound, Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.

A SIMILE ON OUR WANT OF SILVER, AND THE ONLY WAY TO REMEDY IT. 1725

As when of old some sorceress threw O'er the moon's face a sable hue, To drive unseen her magic chair, At midnight, through the darken'd air; Wise people, who believed with reason That this eclipse was out of season, Affirm'd the moon was sick, 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 dispel The cloud, and drive the hag to hell. The moon, deliver'd from her pain, Displays her silver face again. Note here, that in the chemic 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,[1] Join'd with a brazen politician,[2] Exposed, to blind the nation's eyes, A parchment[3] of prodigious size; Conceal'd behind that ample screen, There was no silver to be seen. But to this parchment let the Drapier 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 shrivel And drive the conjurors to the Devil; And when the sky is grown serene, Our silver will appear again.

[Footnote 1: The Duchess of Kendal, who was to have a share of Wood's profits.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, nicknamed Sir Robert Brass, vol. i, p. 219.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: The patent for coining halfpence.]

WOOD AN INSECT. 1725

By 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, Enclosed _cap à pie_, in a strong coat of mail. And thus William Wood to my fancy appears In fillets of brass roll'd up to his ears; And over these fillets he wisely has thrown, To keep out of danger, a doublet of stone.[1] The louse of the wood for a medicine is used Or swallow'd alive, or skilfully bruised. And, let but our mother Hibernia contrive To swallow Will Wood, either bruised or alive, She need be no more with the jaundice possest, Or sick of obstructions, and pains in her chest. The next is an insect 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 sick: For, as sure as a gun, they will give up the ghost, If the maggot cries click when it scratches the post; But a kettle of scalding hot-water injected Infallibly cures the timber affected; The omen is broken, the danger is over; The maggot will die, and the sick will recover. 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 foretell, And the sound of his brass we took for our knell. But now, since the Drapier has heartily maul'd 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 melted copper; Unless, like the Dutch, you rather would boil This coiner of raps[2] in a caldron of oil. Then choose which you please, and let each bring a fagot, For our fear's at an end with the death of the maggot.

[Footnote 1: He was in jail for debt.]

[Footnote 2: Counterfeit halfpence.]

ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 1725

Salmoneus,[1] 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.

[Footnote 1: Who imitated lightning with burning torches and was hurled into Tartarus by a thunderbolt from Jupiter.--Hyginus, "Fab." "Vidi et crudelis dantem Salmonea poenas Dum flammas louis et sonitus imitatur Olympi." VIRG., _Aen_., vi, 585. And see the Excursus of Heyne on the passage.--_W. E. B._]

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.

You will be my thankers, I'll make you my bankers, As good as Ben Burton or Fade;[2] For nothing shall pass But my pretty brass, And then you'll be all of a trade.

I'm a son of a whore If I have a word more To say in this wretched condition. If my coin will not pass, I must die like an ass; And so I conclude my petition.

[Footnote 1: The Drapier's printer.]

[Footnote 2: Two famous bankers.]

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, 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.

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 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, 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.

A SERIOUS POEM UPON WILLIAM WOOD, BRAZIER, TINKER, HARD-WAREMAN, 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. 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 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; 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;[2]) What stuff he is made of you quickly may find If you make the same trial and bore him behind. I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum, He'll bellow as loud as the de'il in a drum. From me, I declare you shall have no denial; And there can be no harm in making a trial: And when to the joy of your hearts he has roar'd, You may show him about for a new groaning board. Now ask me a question. How came it to pass Wood got so much copper? He got it by brass; This brass was a dragon, (observe what I tell ye,) This dragon had gotten two sows in his belly; I know you will say this is all heathen Greek. I own it, and therefore I leave you to seek. I often have seen two plays very good, Call'd Love in a Tub, and Love in a Wood; These comedies twain friend Wood will contrive On the scene of this land very soon to revive. First, Love in a Tub: Squire Wood has in store Strong tubs for his raps, two thousand and more; These raps he will honestly dig out with shovels, And sell them for gold, or he can't show his love else. Wood swears he will do it for Ireland's good, Then can you deny it is Love in a Wood? However, if critics find fault with the phrase, I hope you will own it is Love in a Maze: For when to express a friend's love you are willing, We never say more than your love is a million; But with honest Wood's love there is no contending, 'Tis fifty round millions of love and a mending. Then in his first love why should he be crost? I hope he will find that no love is lost. Hear one story more, and then I will stop. I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop: So methought he resolved no liquor to taste, For fear the first drop might as well be his last. But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em; For it proved that he died of a drop at Kilmainham.[3] I waked with delight; and not without hope, Very soon to see Wood drop down from a rope. How he, and how we at each other should grin! 'Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin. But soft! says the herald, I cannot agree; For metal on metal is false heraldry. Why that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood, I'll maintain with my life, is heraldry good.

[Footnote 1: Forge his own bad halfpence.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: He was burnt in effigy.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 3: The place of execution near Dublin.--_Scott_.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE

To the tune of "London is a fine town," &c.

O Dublin is a fine town And a gallant city, For Wood's trash is tumbled down, Come listen to my ditty, O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

In full assembly all did meet Of every corporation, From every lane and every street, To save the sinking nation. O Dublin, &c.

The bankers would not let it pass For to be Wood's tellers, Instead of gold to count his brass, And fill their small-beer cellars. O Dublin, &c.

And next to them, to take his coin The Gild would not submit, They all did go, and all did join, And so their names they writ. O Dublin, &c.

The brewers met within their hall, And spoke in lofty strains, These halfpence shall not pass at all, They want so many grains. O Dublin, &c.

The tailors came upon this pinch, And wish'd the dog in hell, Should we give this same Wood an inch, We know he'd take an ell. O Dublin, &c.

But now the noble clothiers Of honour and renown, If they take Wood's halfpence They will be all cast down. O Dublin, &c.

The shoemakers came on the next, And said they would much rather, Than be by Wood's copper vext, Take money stampt on leather. O Dublin, &c.

The chandlers next in order came, And what they said was right, They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme Would soon be brought to light. O Dublin, &c.

And that if Wood were now withstood, To his eternal scandal, That twenty of these halfpence should Not buy a farthing candle. O Dublin, &c.

The butchers then, those men so brave, Spoke thus, and with a frown; Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave, Come here, we'd knock him down. O Dublin, &c.

For any rogue that comes to truck And trick away our trade, Deserves not only to be stuck, But also to be flay'd. O Dublin, &c.

The bakers in a ferment were, And wisely shook their head; Should these brass tokens once come here We'd all have lost our bread. O Dublin, &c.

It set the very tinkers mad, The baseness of the metal, Because, they said, it was so bad It would not mend a kettle. O Dublin, &c.

The carpenters and joiners stood Confounded in a maze, They seem'd to be all in a wood, And so they went their ways. O Dublin, &c.

This coin how well could we employ it In raising of a statue, To those brave men that would destroy it, And then, old Wood, have at you. O Dublin, &c.

God prosper long our tradesmen then, And so he will I hope, May they be still such honest men, When Wood has got a rope. O Dublin is a fine town, &c.

VERSES ON THE UPRIGHT JUDGE, WHO CONDEMNED THE DRAPIER'S PRINTER

The church I hate, and have good reason, For there my grandsire cut his weasand: He cut his weasand at the altar; I keep my gullet for the halter.

ON THE SAME

In church your grandsire cut his throat; To do the job too long he tarried: He should have had my hearty vote To cut his throat before he married.

ON THE SAME

THE JUDGE SPEAKS

I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;[1] Nor can you prove it, Mr. Pasquin. My grandame had gallants by twenties, And bore my mother by a 'prentice. This when my grandsire knew, they tell us he In Christ-Church cut his throat for jealousy. And, since the alderman was mad you say, Then I must be so too, _ex traduce_.

[Footnote 1: Alderman Quin, the judge's maternal grandfather, who cut his throat in church.--_W. E. B._]

EPIGRAM

IN ANSWER TO THE DEAN'S VERSES ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS [1]

What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's passing bell; What though the thunder from a cloud, Or that from female tongue more loud, Alarm not; At the Drapier's ear, Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear.

[Footnote 1: See vol. i, p. 284.]

HORACE,