The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 63

See how corruption grows, While mothers, daughters, aunts, Instead of powder'd beaux, From pulpits choose gallants.

If we, who wear our wigs With fantail and with snake, Are bubbled thus by prigs; Z----ds! who would be a rake?

Had I a heart to fight, I'd knock the Doctor down; Or could I read or write, Egad! I'd wear a gown.

Then leave him to his birch;[3]

And at the Rose on Sunday, The parson safe at church, I'll treat you with burgundy.

[Footnote 1: An ale-house in Dublin, famous for beef-steaks.--_F._]

[Footnote 2: Doctor Thomas Sheridan.--_F._]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Sheridan was a schoolmaster.--_F._]

THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER TO THE BEAU

WITH THE WIG AND WINGS AT HIS HEAD BY DR. SHERIDAN

You little scribbling beau, What demon made you write?

Because to write you know As much as you can fight.

For compliment so scurvy, I wish we had you here; We'd turn you topsy-turvy Into a mug of beer.

You thought to make a farce on The man and place we chose; We're sure a single parson Is worth a hundred beaux.

And you would make us va.s.sals, Good Mr. Wig and Wings, To silver clocks and ta.s.sels; You would, you Thing of Things!

Because around your cane A ring of diamonds is set; And you, in some by-lane, Have gain'd a paltry grisette;

Shall we, of sense refined, Your trifling nonsense bear, As noisy as the wind, As empty as the air?

We hate your empty prattle; And vow and swear 'tis true, There's more in one child's rattle, Than twenty fops like you.

THE BEAU'S REPLY TO THE FIVE LADIES' ANSWER

Why, how now, dapper black!

I smell your gown and ca.s.sock, 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 b.u.t.ter.

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 s.e.xtons 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 h.e.l.l 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._]