THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER
Why, how now, dapper black!
I smell your gown and cassock,
As strong upon your back,
As Tisdall[1] smells of a sock.
To write such scurvy stuff!
Fine ladies never do't;
I know you well enough,
And eke your cloven foot.
Fine ladies, when they write,
Nor scold, nor keep a splutter:
Their verses give delight,
As soft and sweet as butter.
But Satan never saw
Such haggard lines as these:
They stick athwart my maw,
As bad as Suffolk cheese.
[Footnote 1: Dr. William Tisdall, a clergyman in the north of Ireland,
who had paid his addresses to Mrs. Johnson. He is several times mentioned
in the Journal to Stella, and is not to be confused with another Tisdall
or Tisdell, whom Swift knew in London, also mentioned in the
Journal.—W. E. B.]
DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD ON BALLY-SPELLIN.[1] 1728
All you that would refine your blood,
As pure as famed 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 cheek 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,[2] 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 politics, no subtle tricks,
No man his country selling:
We eat, we drink; we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.
The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell 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 tipp'd 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 Celia'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!
[Footnote 1: A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, "whither Sheridan
had gone to drink the waters with a new favourite lady." See note to the
"Answer," post, p. 371.—W. E. B.]
[Footnote 2: Ross.—Dublin Edition.]