Part 15

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, BOOK I, ODE XIV PARAPHRASED AND INSCRIBED TO IRELAND 1726

THE INSCRIPTION

Poor floating isle, tost on ill fortune's waves, Ordain'd by fate to be the land of slaves; Shall moving Delos now deep-rooted stand; Thou fix'd of old, be now the moving land! Although the metaphor be worn and stale, Betwixt a state, and vessel under sail; Let me suppose thee for a ship a while, And thus address thee in the sailor style.

Unhappy ship, thou art return'd in vain; New waves shall drive thee to the deep again.[1] Look to thyself, and be no more the sport Of giddy winds, but make some friendly port. Lost are thy oars, that used thy course to guide, Like faithful counsellors, on either side. Thy mast, which like some aged patriot stood, The single pillar for his country's good, To lead thee, as a staff directs the blind, Behold it cracks by yon rough eastern wind; Your cables burst, and you must quickly feel The waves impetuous enter at your keel; Thus commonwealths receive a foreign yoke, When the strong cords of union once are broke. Tom by a sudden tempest is thy sail, Expanded to invite a milder gale. As when some writer in a public cause His pen, to save a sinking nation, draws, While all is calm, his arguments prevail; The people's voice expands his paper sail; Till power, discharging all her stormy bags, Flutters the feeble pamphlet into rags, The nation scared, the author doom'd to death, Who fondly put his trust in poplar breath. A larger sacrifice in vain you vow; There's not a power above will help you now; A nation thus, who oft Heaven's call neglects, In vain from injured Heaven relief expects. 'Twill not avail, when thy strong sides are broke That thy descent is from the British oak; Or, when your name and family you boast, From fleets triumphant o'er the Gallic coast. Such was Ierne's claim, as just as thine, Her sons descended from the British line; Her matchless sons, whose valour still remains On French records for twenty long campaigns; Yet, from an empress now a captive grown, She saved Britannia's rights, and lost her own. In ships decay'd no mariner confides, Lured by the gilded stern and painted sides: Yet at a ball unthinking fools delight In the gay trappings of a birth-day night: They on the gold brocades and satins raved, And quite forgot their country was enslaved. Dear vessel, still be to thy steerage just, Nor change thy course with every sudden gust; Like supple patriots of the modern sort, Who turn with every gale that blows from court. Weary and sea-sick, when in thee confined, Now for thy safety cares distract my mind; As those who long have stood the storms of state Retire, yet still bemoan their country's fate. Beware, and when you hear the surges roar, Avoid the rocks on Britain's angry shore. They lie, alas! too easy to be found; For thee alone they lie the island round.

[Footnote 1: "O navis, referent in mare te novi Fluctus! O quid agis?"]

VERSES ON THE SUDDEN DRYING UP OF ST. PATRICK'S WELL NEAR TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN. 1726

By holy zeal inspired, and led by fame, To thee, once favourite isle, with joy I came; What time the Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun, Had my own native Italy[1] o'errun. Ierne, to the world's remotest parts, Renown'd for valour, policy, and arts. Hither from Colchos,[2] with the fleecy ore, Jason arrived two thousand years before. Thee, happy island, Pallas call'd her own, When haughty Britain was a land unknown:[3] From thee, with pride, the Caledonians trace[4] The glorious founder of their kingly race: Thy martial sons, whom now they dare despise, Did once their land subdue and civilize; Their dress, their language, and the Scottish name, Confess the soil from whence the victors came. Well may they boast that ancient blood which runs Within their veins, who are thy younger sons. A conquest and a colony from thee, The mother-kingdom left her children free; From thee no mark of slavery they felt: Not so with thee thy base invaders dealt; Invited here to vengeful Morrough's aid,[5] Those whom they could not conquer they betray'd. Britain, by thee we fell, ungrateful isle! Not by thy valour, but superior guile: Britain, with shame, confess this land of mine First taught thee human knowledge and divine; My prelates and my students, sent from hence, Made your sons converts both to God and sense: Not like the pastors of thy ravenous breed, Who come to fleece the flocks, and not to feed. Wretched Ierne! with what grief I see The fatal changes time has made in thee! The Christian rites I introduced in vain: Lo! infidelity return'd again! Freedom and virtue in thy sons I found, Who now in vice and slavery are drown'd. By faith and prayer, this crosier in my hand, I drove the venom'd serpent from thy land: The shepherd in his bower might sleep or sing,[6] Nor dread the adder's tooth, nor scorpion's sting. With omens oft I strove to warn thy swains, Omens, the types of thy impending chains. I sent the magpie from the British soil, With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoil; To din thine ears with unharmonious clack, And haunt thy holy walls in white and black. What else are those thou seest in bishop's gear, Who crop the nurseries of learning here; Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate, Devour the church, and chatter to the state? As you grew more degenerate and base, I sent you millions of the croaking race; Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn; A nauseous brood, that fills your senate walls, And in the chambers of your viceroy crawls! See, where that new devouring vermin runs, Sent in my anger from the land of Huns! With harpy-claws it undermines the ground, And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round. Th' amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band, Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land. Where is the holy well that bore my name? Fled to the fountain back, from whence it came! Fair Freedom's emblem once, which smoothly flows, And blessings equally on all bestows. Here, from the neighbouring nursery of arts,[7] The students, drinking, raised their wit and parts; Here, for an age and more, improved their vein, Their Phoebus I, my spring their Hippocrene. Discouraged youths! now all their hopes must fail, Condemn'd to country cottages and ale; To foreign prelates make a slavish court, And by their sweat procure a mean support; Or, for the classics, read "The Attorney's Guide;" Collect excise, or wait upon the tide. Oh! had I been apostle to the Swiss, Or hardy Scot, or any land but this; Combined in arms, they had their foes defied, And kept their liberty, or bravely died; Thou still with tyrants in succession curst, The last invaders trampling on the first; Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate, Virtue herself would now return too late. Not half thy course of misery is run, Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun. Soon shall thy sons (the time is just at hand) Be all made captives in their native land; When for the use of no Hibernian born, Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn; When shells and leather shall for money pass, Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass,[8] But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed,[9] Who, from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed; Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear, And waste in luxury thy harvest there; For pride and ignorance a proverb grown, The jest of wits, and to the court unknown. I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line, And from this hour my patronage resign.

[Footnote 1: Italy was not properly the native place of St. Patrick, but the place of his education, and whence he received his mission; and because he had his new birth there, by poetical license, and by scripture figure, our author calls that country his native Italy.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 2: Orpheus, or the ancient author of the Greek poem on the Argonautic expedition, whoever he be, says, that Jason, who manned the ship Argos at Thessaly, sailed to Ireland. And Adrianus Junius says the same thing, in these lines: "Ilia ego sum Graiis, olim glacialis Ierne Dicta, et Jasoniae puppis bene cognita nautis."--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 3: Tacitus, comparing Ireland to Britain, says of the former: "Melius aditus portusque per commercia et negotiatores cogniti."--_Agricola,_ xxiv.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Fordun, in his Scoti-Chronicon, Hector Boethius, Buchanan, and all the Scottish historians, agree that Fergus, son of Ferquard, King of Ireland, was the first King of Scotland, which country he subdued.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 5: In the reign of Henry II, 1172, Dermot Macmorrogh, King of Leinster, having been expelled from his kingdom by Roderick, King of Connaught, sought and obtained the assistance of the English for the recovery of his dominions. See Hume's "History of England," vol. i, p. 380.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 6: There are no snakes, vipers, or toads in Ireland; and even frogs were not known here till about the year 1700. The magpies came a short time before; and the Norway rats since.--_Dublin Edition_. These plagues are all alluded to in this and the subsequent stanzas.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 7: The University of Dublin, called Trinity College, was founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1591.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 8: Wood's ruinous project against the people of Ireland was supported by Sir Robert Walpole in 1724.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 9: The absentees, who spent the income of their Irish estates, places, and pensions, in England.--_Dublin Edition_.]

ON READING DR. YOUNG'S SATIRE, CALLED THE UNIVERSAL PASSION 1726

If there be truth in what you sing, Such godlike virtues in the king; A minister[1] so fill'd with zeal And wisdom for the commonweal; If he[2] who in the chair presides, So steadily the senate guides; If others, whom you make your theme, Are seconds in the glorious scheme; If every peer whom you commend, To worth and learning be a friend; If this be truth, as you attest, What land was ever half so blest! No falsehood now among the great, And tradesmen now no longer cheat: Now on the bench fair Justice shines; Her scale to neither side inclines: Now Pride and Cruelty are flown, And Mercy here exalts her throne; For such is good example's power, It does its office every hour, Where governors are good and wise; Or else the truest maxim lies: For so we find all ancient sages Decree, that, _ad exemplum regis_, Through all the realm his virtues run, Ripening and kindling like the sun. If this be true, then how much more When you have named at least a score Of courtiers, each in their degree, If possible, as good as he? Or take it in a different view. I ask (if what you say be true) If you affirm the present age Deserves your satire's keenest rage; If that same universal passion With every vice has fill'd the nation: If virtue dares not venture down A single step beneath the crown: If clergymen, to show their wit, Praise classics more than holy writ: If bankrupts, when they are undone, Into the senate-house can run, And sell their votes at such a rate, As will retrieve a lost estate: If law be such a partial whore, To spare the rich, and plague the poor: If these be of all crimes the worst, What land was ever half so curst?

[Footnote 1: Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford. Young's seventh satire is inscribed to him.--_Scott_.]

[Footnote 2: Sir Spencer Compton, then Speaker, afterwards Earl of Wilmington, to whom the eighth satire is dedicated. See vol. i, 219.--_W. E. B._]

THE DOG AND THIEF. 1726

Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door And I'll give you these delicate bits. Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you're, And besides must be out of my wits.

Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal, But my master each day gives me bread; You'll fly, when you get what you came here to steal, And I must be hang'd in your stead.

The stockjobber thus from 'Change Alley goes down, And tips you the freeman a wink; Let me have but your vote to serve for the town, And here is a guinea to drink.

Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent! Your offers of bribery cease: I'll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent, Or else I may forfeit my lease.

From London they come, silly people to chouse, Their lands and their faces unknown: Who'd vote a rogue into the parliament-house, That would turn a man out of his own?

A DIALOGUE[1] BETWEEN MAD MULLINIX AND TIMOTHY 1728