By Honest Jo. One of His Grace's Farmers in Fingal

I sing not of the Drapier's praise, nor yet of William Wood,But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country's good;Lord William's grace of Dublin town, 'tis he that first appears,Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years.In ev'ry council and debate he stands for what is right,And still the truth he will maintain, whate'er he loses by't.And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a seasonWhen every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason.His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more.Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood's dross.To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin.Why, there’s my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows."A bishop," says the noble squire, "I hate the very name,To have two thousand pounds a-year--O 'tis a burning shame!Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord! And I to have but five!"And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive:Now from his lordship's grace I hold a little piece of ground,And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.Then master steward takes my rent, and tells me, "Honest Jo,Come, you must take a cup of sack or two before you go."He bids me then to hold my tongue, and up the money locks,For fear my lord should send it all into the poor man's box.And once I was so bold to beg that I might see his grace,Good lord! I wonder how I dared to look him in the face:Then down I went upon my knees, his blessing to obtain;He gave it me, and ever since I find I thrive amain."Then," said my lord, "I'm very glad to see thee, honest friend,I know the times are something hard, but hope they soon will mend,Pray never press yourself for rent, but pay me when you can;I find you bear a good report, and are an honest man."Then said his lordship with a smile, "I must have lawful cash,I hope you will not pay my rent in that same Wood's trash!""God bless your Grace," I then replied, "I'd see him hanging higher,Before I'd touch his filthy dross, than is Clandalkin spire."To every farmer twice a-week all round about the Yoke,Our parsons read the Drapier's books, and make us honest folk.And then I went to pay the squire, and in the way I found,His bailie driving all my cows into the parish pound;"Why, sirrah," said the noble squire, "how dare you see my face,Your rent is due almost a week, beside the days of grace."And yet the land I from him hold is set so on the rack,That only for the bishop's lease 'twould quickly break my back.Then God preserve his lordship's grace, and make him live as longAs did Methusalem of old, and so I end my song.