AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, UPON THE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST WOOD'S HALFPENCE To the tune of "London is a fine town," &c. O Dublin is a fine town And a gallant city, For Wood's trash is tumbled down, Come listen to my ditty, O Dublin is a fine town, &c. In full assembly all did meet Of every corporation, From every lane and every street, To save the sinking nation. O Dublin, &c. The bankers would not let it pass For to be Wood's tellers, Instead of gold to count his brass, And fill their small-beer cellars. O Dublin, &c. And next to them, to take his coin The Gild would not submit, They all did go, and all did join, And so their names they writ. O Dublin, &c. The brewers met within their hall, And spoke in lofty strains, These halfpence shall not pass at all, They want so many grains. O Dublin, &c. The tailors came upon this pinch, And wish'd the dog in hell, Should we give this same Wood an inch, We know he'd take an ell. O Dublin, &c. But now the noble clothiers Of honour and renown, If they take Wood's halfpence They will be all cast down. O Dublin, &c. The shoemakers came on the next, And said they would much rather, Than be by Wood's copper vext, Take money stampt on leather. O Dublin, &c. The chandlers next in order came, And what they said was right, They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme Would soon be brought to light. O Dublin, &c. And that if Wood were now withstood, To his eternal scandal, That twenty of these halfpence should Not buy a farthing candle. O Dublin, &c. The butchers then, those men so brave, Spoke thus, and with a frown; Should Wood, that cunning scoundrel knave, Come here, we'd knock him down. O Dublin, &c. 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