A joiner, to fasten a saint in a nitch,
Bor'd a large auger-hole in the image's breech.
But, finding the statue to make no complaint,
He would ne'er be convinc'd it was a true saint.
When the true Wood arrives, as he soon will, no doubt,
(For that's but a sham Wood they carry about[1];)
What stuff he is made of you quickly may find,
If you make the same trial, and bore him behind.
I'll hold you a groat, when you wimble his bum,
He'll bellow as loud as the Devil in a drum.
From me, I declare, you shall have no denial;
And there can be no harm in making a trial:
And, when to the joy of your hearts he has roar'd,
You may show him about for a new groaning board.
Hear one story more, and then I will stop.
I dreamt Wood was told he should die by a drop:
So methought he resolved no liquor to taste,
For fear the first drop might as well be his last.
But dreams are like oracles; 'tis hard to explain 'em;
For it prov'd that he died of a drop at Kilmainham[2].
I wak'd with delight; and not without hope,
Very soon to see Wood drop down from a rope.
How he, and how we, at each other should grin!
'Tis kindness to hold a friend up by the chin.
But soft! says the Herald; I cannot agree;
For metal on metal is false heraldry.
Why, that may be true; yet Wood upon Wood,
I'll maintain with my life, is heraldry good.
TO
