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._]
ANSWER.[1] BY DR. SWIFT
Dare you dispute, you saucy brute,
And think there's no refelling
Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise
You give to Ballyspellin?
Howe'er you flounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;
Your water's mud, and sours the blood
When drunk at Ballyspellin.
Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,
Will back be sent worse than they went,
From nasty Ballyspellin.
Llewellyn why? As well may I
Name honest Doctor Pellin;
So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Ballyspellin.
No subject fit to try your wit,
When you went colonelling:
But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues,
You met at Ballyspellin.
Pages:
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418