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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 Ballyspellia.
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!
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.
Llewllyn 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 lasses fair,
Who sowins make with shelling,
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 bum so wbite 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 you 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 lass 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 cudgélling :
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.
ON A, CHARACTER OF DEAN SMEDLEY.
WRITTEN IN LATIN BY HIMSELF *.
The very reverend dean Smedley,
Of dullness, pride, conceit, a medley,
Was equally allow'd to shine
As poet, scholar, and divine;
With godliness could well dispense,
Would be a rake, but wanted sepse ;
Would strictly after Truth inquire.
Because he dreaded to come nigh her.
SY DEAN SMEDLEY. 1729.
Reverendus Decanus, JONATHAN SMEDLEY,
Theologia instructus, in Poesi exercitatus,
Politioribus excultus literis;
Parce pius, impius minime;
Veritatis Indagator, Libertatis Assertor ;
Subsannatus multis, fastiditus quibusdam,
Exoptatus plurimis, omnibus amicus,
Auctor hujus sententiæ, PATRES SUNT VETULÆ.
Per laudem et vituperium, per famam atque infamiam;
Utramque fortunam, variosque expertus casus,
Mente sana, sano corpore, volens, lætusque,
Lustris plus quam xi numeratis,
Ad rem familiarem restaurandam augendamque,
Et ad Evangelium Indos inter Orientales prædicandum,
Grevæ, idibus Februarii, navem ascendens, Arcemque Sancta petens Georgii, vernale per æquinoxium, Anno Æræ Christianæ MDCCXXVIII,
Fata vocant-revocentque precamur.
For Liberty no champion bolder,
He hated bailiffs at his shoulder.
To half the world a standing jest,
A perfect nuisance to the rest;
From many (and we may believe him)
Had the best wishes they could give him,
To all mankind a constant friend,
Provided they had cash to lend.
One thing he did before he went hence,
He left us a lạconick sentence,
By cutting of his phrase, and trimming,
To prove that bishops were old women.
Poor Envy durst not show her phiz,
She was so terrified at his.
He waded, without any shame,
Through thick and thin to get a name,
Tried every sharping trick for bread,
And after all he seldom sped.
When Fortune favour'd, he was nice;
He never once would cog the dice:
But, if she turn'd against his play,
He knew to stop à quatre trois.
Now sound in mind, and sound in corpuss
(Says be) though swelld like any porpoise,
He hies from hence at forty-four
(But by his leave he sinks a score)
To the East Indies, there to cheat,
Till he can purchase an estate;
Where, after he has fill'd his chest,
He'll mount his tub, and preach his best,
And plainly prove, by dint of text,
This world is his, and theirs the next.
Lest that the reader should not know
The bank where last he set his toe,,
'Twas Greenwich. There he took a shipe
And gave his creditors the slip.
But lest chronology should vary,
Upon the ides of February,