Volume Ii Part 33 (1/2)
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 c.h.i.n.k.
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 pa.s.s But my pretty bra.s.s, And then you'll be all of a trade.
I'm a son of a wh.o.r.e If I have a word more To say in this wretched condition.
If my coin will not pa.s.s, I must die like an a.s.s; And so I conclude my pet.i.tion.
[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 n.o.body 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.