Part 14

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