The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 8/Ballad on Ballyspellin
DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD
ON BALLYSPELLIN. 1728.
ALL you that would refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year,
To drink at Ballyspellin.
Though pox or itch your skins enrich
With rubies past the telling,
'Twill clear your skin before you've been
A month at Ballyspellin.
If lady's cheeks be green as leek
When she comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rose within it glows
When she's at Ballyspellin.
The sooty brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;
Then back she goes, to kill the beaux
By dint of Ballyspellin.
Our ladies are as fresh and fair
As Rose, or bright Dunkelling:
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyspellin.
We men submit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:
The reason's plain; the ladies reign,
They're queens at Ballyspellin.
By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyspellin.
Cold water turns to fire, and burns,
I know, because I fell in
A stream, which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.
Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in,
With so much grace, I'm sure no place
Can vie with Ballyspellin.
No politicks, no subtle tricks,
No man his country selling:
We eat, we drink; we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.
The troubled mind, the puft with wind.
Do all come here pellmell in;
And they are sure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyspellin.
Though dropsy fills you to the gills,
From chin to toe though swelling,
Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyspellin.
Death throws no darts through all these parts,
No sextons here are knelling:
Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin.
Except you feel darts tipt with steel,
Which here are every belle in:
When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyspellin.
Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
Your sight, your taste, your smelling,
Your ears, your touch, transported much
Each day at Ballyspellin.
Within this ground we all sleep sound,
No noisy dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Cælia's sake,
All night at Ballyspellin.
There all you see, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in;
But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyspellin.
My rhymes are gone; I think I've none,
Unless I should bring Hell in;
But, since I'm here to Heaven so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin!