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BALLYSPELLIN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: All you that would refine your blood
Last Line: I can't at ballyspellin.


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 skin enrich
With rubies past the telling,
'Twill clear your skins 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 Ross 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, unconquered arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their pow'r 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, equipped 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 puffed 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 sextons here are knelling;
Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin.

Except you feel darts tipped 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 hell in;
But, since I'm here to heav'n so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin.





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