The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume Ii Part 64

[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 p.r.o.nounce, 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.

Our la.s.ses fair, say what you dare, Who sowins[2] make with sh.e.l.ling, At Market-hill more beaux can kill, Than yours at Ballyspellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheelah stript, To wash herself our well in, A b.u.m so white ne'er came in sight At paltry Ballyspellin.

Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear; Of Holland not an ell in, No, not a rag, whate'er your brag, Is found at Ballyspellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate, All other nymphs expelling: Because he gets a few grisettes At lousy Ballyspellin.

There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane, Just o'er against the Bell inn; Where can you meet a la.s.s so sweet, Round all your Ballyspellin?

We have a girl deserves an earl; She came from Enniskellin; So fair, so young, no such among The belles of Ballyspellin.

How would you stare, to see her there, The foggy mists dispelling, That cloud the brows of every blowse Who lives at Ballyspellin!

Now, as I live, I would not give A stiver or a skellin, To towse and kiss the fairest miss That leaks at Ballyspellin.

Whoe'er will raise such lies as these Deserves a good cudgelling: Who falsely boasts of belles and toasts At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes are gone to all but one, Which is, our trees are felling; As proper quite as those you write, To force in Ballyspellin.

[Footnote 1: This answer, which seems to have been made while Swift was on a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson's, "in a mere jest and innocent merriment," was resented by Sheridan as an affront on the lady and himself, "against all the rules of reason, taste, good nature, judgment, grat.i.tude, or common manners." See "The History of the Second Solomon,"

"Prose Works," xi, 157. The mutual irritation soon pa.s.sed, and the Dean and Sheridan resumed their intimate friends.h.i.+p.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: A food much used in Scotland, the north of Ireland, and other parts. It is made of oatmeal, and sometimes of the sh.e.l.lings of oats; and known by the names of sowins or flummery.--_F._]

AN EPISTLE TO TWO FRIENDS[1]

TO DR. HELSHAM [2]

Nov. 23, at night, 1731.

SIR,

When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick; I'm so full of pity I never abuse sick; And the patientest patient ever you knew sick; Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.

I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick: She mended at first, but now she's anew sick.

Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick.

Dean Cross, had he preach'd, would have made us all pew-sick.

Are not you, in a crowd when you sweat and you stew, sick?

Lady Santry got out of the church[3] when she grew sick, And as fast as she could, to the deanery flew sick.

Miss Morice was (I can a.s.sure you 'tis true) sick: For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?

Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick, Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre or loo sick.

Nor is old Nanny Shales,[4] whene'er she does brew, sick.

My footman came home from the church of a bruise sick, And look'd like a rake, who was made in the stews sick: But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick: And poor I myself was, when I withdrew, sick: For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick, And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clew, sick.

Yet hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick; But there was not a dozen (to give them their due) sick, And those, to be sure, stuck together like glue sick.

So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick; You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick; So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew, sick.

[Footnote 1: This medley, for it cannot be called a poem, is given as a specimen of those _bagatelles_ for which the Dean hath perhaps been too severely censured.--_H._]

[Footnote 2: Richard Helsham, M.D., Professor of Physic and Natural Philosophy in the University of Dublin, born about 1682 at Leggatsrath, Kilkenny, a friend of Swift, who mentions him as "the most eminent physician in this city and kingdom." He was one of the brilliant literary coterie in Dublin at that period. He died in 1738.--_W. E. B._.]

[Footnote 3: St. Patrick's Cathedral, where the music on St. Cecilia's day was usually performed.--_F._]

[Footnote 4: _Vide_ Grattan, _inter_ Belchamp and Clonshogh.--_Dublin Edition._]

TO DR. SHERIDAN

Nov. 23, at night.

If I write any more, it will make my poor Muse sick.

This night I came home with a very cold dew sick, And I wish I may soon be not of an ague sick; But I hope I shall ne'er be like you, of a shrew sick, Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

DR. HELSHAM'S ANSWER

The Doctor's first rhyme would make any Jew sick: I know it has made a fine lady in blue sick, For which she is gone in a coach to Killbrew sick, Like a hen I once had, from a fox when she flew sick: Last Monday a lady at St. Patrick's did spew sick: And made all the rest of the folks in the pew sick, The surgeon who bled her his lancet out drew sick, And stopp'd the distemper, as being but new sick.

The yacht, the last storm, had all her whole crew sick; Had we two been there, it would have made me and you sick: A lady that long'd, is by eating of glue sick; Did you ever know one in a very good Q sick?

I'm told that my wife is by winding a clew sick; The doctors have made her by rhyme[1] and by rue sick.

There's a gamester in town, for a throw that he threw sick, And yet the whole trade of his dice he'll pursue sick; I've known an old miser for paying his due sick; At present I'm grown by a pinch of my shoe sick, And what would you have me with verses to do sick?

Send rhymes, and I'll send you some others in lieu sick.

Of rhymes I have plenty, And therefore send twenty.

Answered the same day when sent, Nov. 23.

I desire you will carry both these to the Doctor together with his own; and let him know we are not persons to be insulted.