Epigram On Wood'S Brass Money

Carteret was welcomed to the shore
First with the brazen cannon's roar;
To meet him next the soldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town he hears
The brazen bells salute his ears:
But when Wood's brass began to sound,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.

Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was an Anglo-Irish satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer, poet and cleric who became Dean of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. Swift is remembered for works such as "A Tale of a Tub" (1704), "An Argument Against Abolishing Christianity" (1712), and "Gulliver's Travels" (1726). Swift originally published all of his works under pseudonyms—such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, Drapier's Letters as MB Drapier—and works were sometimes attributed to Anonymous.

Jonathan Swift

Upon Carthy's Threatening To Translate Pindar (Epigram Against Carthy)

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

To Mr. Thomas Sheridan

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

To Dean Swift

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

Parody On The Recorder Of Blessington's Address To Queen Anne

Jonathan Swift, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

On Wood The Ironmonger.

Salmoneus,[1] as the Grecian tale is,
Was a mad coppersmith of Elis:
Up at his forge by morning peep,
No creature in the lane could sleep;
Among a crew of roystering fellows
Would sit whole evenings at the alehouse;
His wife and children wanted bread,
While he went always drunk to bed.
This vapouring scab must needs devise
To ape the thunder of the skies:
With brass two fiery steeds he shod,
To make a clattering as they trod,
Of polish'd brass his flaming car
Like lightning dazzled from afar;
And up he mounts into the box,
And he must thunder, with a pox.
Then furious he begins his march,
Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch;
With squibs and crackers arm'd to throw
Among the trembling crowd below.
All ran to prayers, both priests and laity,

Jonathan Swift

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....

Jonathan Swift

A Serious Poem; Upon William Wood, Brazier, Tinker, Hard-Wareman, Coiner, Founder, And Esquire

When foes are o'ercome, we preserve them from slaughter,
To be hewers of wood, and drawers of water.
Now, although to draw water is not very good,
Yet we all should rejoice to be hewers of Wood.
I own it has often provoked me to mutter,
That a rogue so obscure should make such a clutter;
But ancient philosophers wisely remark,
That old rotten wood will shine in the dark.
The Heathens, we read, had gods made of wood,
Who could do them no harm, if they did them no good;
But this idol Wood may do us great evil,
Their gods were of wood, but our Wood is the devil.
To cut down fine wood is a very bad thing;
And yet we all know much gold it will bring:
Then, if cutting down wood brings money good store
Our money to keep, let us cut down one more.
    Now hear an old ...

Jonathan Swift

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 twop...

Jonathan Swift

Prometheus[1]; On Wood The Patentee's Irish Halfpence[2]

When first 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 ev'ry part,
In fillets roll'd, or cut in pieces,
Appear'd like one continued species;
And, by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression took.
    So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, Tories, Trimmers, Hanoverians,
Quakers, Conformists, Presbyterians,
Scotch, Irish, English, French, unite,
With equal interest, equal spite
Together mingled in a lump,
Do all in one opinion jump;
And ev'ry one begins to find
The same impression on his mind.
    A strange event! whom gold incites
To blood and quarrels, brass...

Jonathan Swift

Punch's Petition To The Ladies

    -    - Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
    Auri sacra fames! -    - VIRG., Aen., iii.

This poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when Lord-Lieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show. - Scott.


Fair ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite - Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh'invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,
Our Pigmy land - and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of ...

Jonathan Swift