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,     To pacify this angry deity;     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,     Applied 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 the impostor's crown,     Like real thunder knock'd him down.