The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 32

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 pa.s.s Betwixt the king and us but bra.s.s, 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: d.u.c.h.ess 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 BRa.s.s MONEY

Carteret was welcomed to the sh.o.r.e 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 bra.s.s 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 h.e.l.l.

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 d.u.c.h.ess of Kendal, who was to have a share of Wood's profits.--_Scott._]

[Footnote 2: Sir Robert Walpole, nicknamed Sir Robert Bra.s.s, 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 a pie_, in a strong coat of mail.

And thus William Wood to my fancy appears In fillets of bra.s.s 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 wh.o.r.e; The death of our nation he seem'd to foretell, And the sound of his bra.s.s 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 f.a.got, 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 bra.s.s two fiery steeds he shod, To make a clattering as they trod, Of polish'd bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sage.--_W. E. B._]

WILL WOOD'S PEt.i.tION 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.