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 chink. 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 pass But my pretty brass, And then you'll be all of a trade. I'm a son of a whore If I have a word more To say in this wretched condition. If my coin will not pass, I must die like an ass; And so I conclude my petition. [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 nobody 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. The squire who has got him twelve thousand a-year, O Lord! what a mountain his rents would appear! Should he take them, he would not have house-room, I fear. Which, &c. Though at present he lives in a very large house, There would then not be room in it left for a mouse; But the squire is too wise, he will not take a souse. Which, &c. The farmer who comes with his rent in this cash, For taking these counters and being so rash, Will be kick'd out of doors, both himself and his trash. Which, &c.