Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/329

Rh When Jove, in pity to the town, With real thunder knock'd him down. Then what a huge delight were all in, To see the wicked varlet sprawling; They search'd his pockets on the place, And found his copper all was base; They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder, To take the noise of brass for thunder. The moral of this tale is proper, Apply'd to Wood's adulterate copper: Which, as he scatter’d, we like dolts Mistook at first for thunderbolts, Before the Drapier shot a letter, (Nor Jove himself could do it better) Which, lighting on th' impostor's crown, Like real thunder knock'd him down.

dear Irish folks, Come leave off your jokes, And buy up my halfpence so fine; So fair and so bright, They'll give you delight; Observe how they glisten and shine! They'll