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.