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.