A Serious Poem upon William Wood, Brazier, Tinker, Hard-Wareman, Coiner, Founder, and Esquire

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 storeOur 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 friendHe'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 and has the true sapience,To turn a good penny to twenty bad halfpence.Then in spite of your sophistry, honest Will WoodIs 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 knownMore heathenish times, than those of our own;Perhaps you will say, 'tis the devil that putsThe 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 perditionHath 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;)What stuff he is made of you quickly may findIf 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 passWood 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 contriveOn the scene of this land very soon to revive.First, Love in a Tub: Squire Wood has in storeStrong 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.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.To the tune of "London is a fine town," &c.