Dr. Sheridan's Ballad on Bally-Spellin. 1728
All you that would refine your blood,As pure as famed Llewellyn,By waters clear, come every yearTo drink at Ballyspellin.
Though pox or itch your skins enrichWith rubies past the telling,'Twill clear your skin before you've beenA month at Ballyspellin.
If lady's cheek be green as leekWhen she comes from her dwelling,The kindling rose within it glowsWhen 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 fairAs Rose, 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 quellingSuch desperate foes as dare opposeTheir power at Ballyspellin.
Cold water turns to fire, and burnsI know, because I fell inA stream, which came from one bright dameWho drank at Ballyspellin.
Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,To bring their Anne or Nell in,With so much grace, I'm sure no placeCan vie with Ballyspellin.
No politics, no subtle tricks,No man his country selling:We eat, we drink; we never thinkOf 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 cureBy drinking Ballyspellin.
Though dropsy fills you to the gills,From chin to toe though swelling,Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubtA 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 muchEach 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!
Words in this poem
- dint n.
- A blow; a stroke. [OE. dint, dent, dunt, a blow, AS. dynt; akin to Icel. dyntr a dint, dynta to dint, and perh. to L. fendere (in composition). Cf. 1st Dent, Defend.]
- desperate a.
- Without hope; given to despair; hopeless. [L. desperatus, p. p. of desperare. See Despair, and cf. Desperado.]
- dame n.
- A mistress of a family, who is a lady; a womam in authority; especially, a lady. [F. dame, LL. domna, fr. L. domina mistress, lady, fem. of dominus master, ruler, lord; akin to domare to tame, subdue. See Tame, and cf. Dam mother, Dan, Danger]
- drank n.
- Wild oats, or darnel grass. See Drake a plant. [Cf. 3d Drake.]
- belle n.
- A young lady of superior beauty and attractions; a handsome lady, or one who attracts notice in society; a fair lady. [F. belle, fem. of bel, beau, beautiful, fine. See Beau.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Dr. Sheridan's Ballad on Bally-Spellin. 1728 is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D., Volume 2, Project Gutenberg ebook #13621; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Jonathan Swift, Dr. Sheridan's Ballad on Bally-Spellin. 1728, in Cadenus and Vanessa, and Other Poems (1710–1745), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #13621, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/swift-poems/dr-sheridan-s-ballad-on-bally-spellin-1728.html, id L26351.
Form and metre
Dr. Sheridan's Ballad on Bally-Spellin. 1728 is 72 lines in 18 stanzas of 4 lines each. This poem did not settle on a metre of its own; the book it comes from is in iambic tetrameter.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-A blood · llewellynA · year · ballyspellinA
- 4 AA-- townA · helenA · beaux · ballyspellin
- 18 AA-- noneA · inA · near · ballyspellin
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| All you that would refine your blood, | 8 | ····˘/·· |
| As pure as famed Llewellyn, | 8 | ····˘·/˘ |
| By waters clear, come every year | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| To drink at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Though pox or itch your skins enrich | 8 | ······˘/ |
| With rubies past the telling, | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| 'Twill clear your skin before you've been | 8 | ········ |
| A month at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| If lady's cheek be green as leek | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| When she comes from her dwelling, | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| The kindling rose within it glows | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| When she's at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| The sooty brown, who comes from town, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Grows here as fair as Helen; | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Then back she goes, to kill the beaux, | 8 | ········ |
| By dint of Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Our ladies are as fresh and fair | 8 | //˘····· |
| As Rose, or bright Dunkelling: | 7 | ····/˘˘ |
| And Mars might make a fair mistake, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Were he at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| We men submit as they think fit, | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| And here is no rebelling: | 7 | ····˘/˘ |
| The reason's plain; the ladies reign, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| They're queens at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| They have the way of quelling | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Such desperate foes as dare oppose | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
| Their power at Ballyspellin. | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Cold water turns to fire, and burns | 8 | ·/˘··/·· |
| I know, because I fell in | 7 | ······· |
| A stream, which came from one bright dame | 8 | ········ |
| Who drank at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| To bring their Anne or Nell in, | 7 | ······· |
| With so much grace, I'm sure no place | 8 | ········ |
| Can vie with Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| No politics, no subtle tricks, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| No man his country selling: | 7 | ···/˘/˘ |
| We eat, we drink; we never think | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Of these at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Do all come here pell-mell in; | 7 | ······· |
| And they are sure to work their cure | 8 | ········ |
| By drinking Ballyspellin. | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| Though dropsy fills you to the gills, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| From chin to toe though swelling, | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| A cure at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Death throws no darts through all these parts, | 8 | ········ |
| No sextons here are knelling; | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| Come, judge and try, you'll never die, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| But live at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Except you feel darts tipp'd with steel, | 8 | ········ |
| Which here are every belle in: | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| When from their eyes sweet ruin flies, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| We die at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care, | 8 | ········ |
| Your sight, your taste, your smelling, | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| Your ears, your touch, transported much | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| Each day at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| Within this ground we all sleep sound, | 8 | ········ |
| No noisy dogs a-yelling; | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| Except you wake, for Celia's sake, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| All night at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| There all you see, both he and she, | 8 | ········ |
| No lady keeps her cell in; | 7 | ·/˘···· |
| But all partake the mirth we make, | 8 | ··˘/···· |
| Who drink at Ballyspellin. | 7 | ······· |
| My rhymes are gone; I think I've none, | 8 | ········ |
| Unless I should bring Hell in; | 7 | ······· |
| But, since I'm here to Heaven so near, | 8 | ·····/·· |
| I can't at Ballyspellin! | 7 | ······· |
Notes from the edition 1
The notes to the Poems of Jonathan Swift, Volume II (Project Gutenberg #13621).
- Stanza 5, line 2 Ross.--Dublin Edition.
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.