They'll sell, to my grief,
As cheap as neckbeef,
For counters at cards to your wife:
And every day
Your children may play
Spanfarthing, or toss on the knife.
Come hither, and try;
I'll teach you to buy
A pot of good ale for a farthing:
Come; threepence a score,
I ask you no more,
And a fig for the Drapier and Harding[1].
When tradesmen have gold,
The thief will be bold,
By day and by night for to rob him:
My copper is such,
No robber will touch,
And so you may daintily bob him.
The little blackguard,
Who gets very hard
His halfpence for cleaning your shoes:
When his pockets are cramm'd
With mine and be d—'d,
He may swear he has nothing to lose.
Here's halfpence in plenty,
For one you'll have twenty,
Though thousands are not worth a pudden.
Your neighbours will think.
When your pocket cries chink,
You are grown plaguy rich on a sudden.
Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/330
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318
SWIFT'S POEMS.
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