Classic Poem

On Wood the Patentee's Irish Halfpence

As, when the squire and tinker, Wood,
Gravely consulting Ireland's good,
Together mingled in a mass
Smith's dust, and copper, lead and brass;
The mixture thus by chemic art,
United close in every part,
In fillets rolled, or cut in pieces,
Appeared like one continuous species,
And by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression stuck.

So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, Tories, trimmers, Hanovenans,
Quakers, conformists, presbytenans,
Scotch, Irish, English, French unite
With equal interest, equal spite.
Together mingled in a lump,
Do all in one opinion jump;
And everyone begins to find
The same impression on his mind .

A strange event! whom gold incites,
To blood and quarrels, brass unites:
So goldsmiths say, the coarsest stuff
Will serve for solder well enough,
So, by the kettle's loud alarm,
The bees are gathered to a swarm:
So by the brazen trumpet's bluster,
Troops of all tongues and nations muster.
And so the harp of Ireland brings,
Whole crowds about its brazen strings.

There is a chain let down from Jove,
But fastened to his throne above;
So strong, that from the lower end,
They say, all human things depend:
This chain, as ancient poets hold,
When Jove was young, was made of gold.
Prometheus once this chain purloined,
Dissolved, and into money coined;
Then whips me on a chain of brass,
(Venus was bribed to let it pass.)

Now while this brazen chain prevailed,
Jove saw that all devotion failed;
No temple to his godship raised;
No sacrifice on altars blazed:
In short, such dire confusions followed,
Earth must have been in chaos swallowed.
Jove stood amazed, but looking round,
With much ado the cheat he found;
'Twas plain he could no longer hold
The world in any chain but gold;
And to the god of wealth his brother,
Sent Mercury to get another.

Prometheus on a rock was laid,
Tied with the chain himself had made;
On icy Caucasus to shiver,
While vultures eat his growing liver.

Ye powers of Grub Street, make me able,
Discreetly to apply this fable.
Say, who is to be understood
By that old thief Prometheus? Wood.
For Jove, it is not hard to guess him,
I mean His Majesty, God bless him
This thief and blacksmith was so bold,
He strove to steal that chain of gold,
Which links the subject to the king:
And change it for a brazen string.
But sure, if nothing else must pass
Between the King and us but brass,
Although the chain will never crack,
Yet our devotion may grow slack.

But Jove will soon convert I hope,
This brazen chain into a rope;
With which Prometheus shall be tied,
And high in air for ever ride;
Where, if we find his liver grows,
For want of vultures, we have crows.