There’s Donevan, Hart, and Archer, and Blood,
And Gibson, and Gerard, all true men and good,
All lovers of Ireland, and haters of Wood. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But the slaves that would sell us shall hear on’t in time,
Their names shall be branded in prose and in rhyme,
We’ll paint ’em in colours as black as their crime. 
      Which nobody can deny.

But P——­r and copper L——­h we’ll excuse,
The commands of your betters you dare not refuse,
Obey was the word when you wore wooden shoes. 
      Which nobody can deny.

[Footnote 1:  This is an address of congratulation to the Grand Jury who threw out the bill against Harding the printer.  It would seem they had not been perfectly unanimous on this occasion, for two out of the twelve are marked as having dissented from their companions, although of course this difference of opinion could not, according to the legal forms of England, appear on the face of the verdict.  The dissenters seem to have been of French extraction.  The ballad has every mark of being written by Swift.—­Scott.]

[Footnote 2:  Whitshed or Carteret.]

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG UPON HIS GRACE OUR GOOD LORD ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN

Dr. King, Archbishop of Dublin, stood high in Swift’s estimation by his opposition to Wood’s coinage.

BY HONEST JO.  ONE OF HIS GRACE’S FARMERS IN FINGAL

I sing not of the Drapier’s praise, nor yet of William Wood,
But I sing of a famous lord, who seeks his country’s good;
Lord William’s grace of Dublin town, ’tis he that first appears,
Whose wisdom and whose piety do far exceed his years. 
In ev’ry council and debate he stands for what is right,
And still the truth he will maintain, whate’er he loses by’t. 
And though some think him in the wrong, yet still there comes a season
When every one turns round about, and owns his grace had reason. 
His firmness to the public good, as one that knows it swore,
Has lost his grace for ten years past ten thousand pounds and more. 
Then come the poor and strip him so, they leave him not a cross,
For he regards ten thousand pounds no more than Wood’s dross. 
To beg his favour is the way new favours still to win,
He makes no more to give ten pounds than I to give a pin. 
Why, there’s my landlord now, the squire, who all in money wallows,
He would not give a groat to save his father from the gallows. 
“A bishop,” says the noble squire, “I hate the very name,
To have two thousand pounds a-year—­O ’tis a burning shame! 
Two thousand pounds a-year! good lord!  And I to have but five!”
And under him no tenant yet was ever known to thrive: 
Now from his lordship’s grace I hold a little piece of ground,
And all the rent I pay is scarce five shillings in the pound.