We’ll land in the State House or Congress,
Thin what will become of our sowls?
Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.
DOCHTHER O’FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.
I.
I’m Barney O’Flannigan, lately from Cork;
I’ve crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.
‘Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;
I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.
Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache
In yer jints afther dancin’ a jig at a wake?
Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?
Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?
Whin ye’re walkin’ the shtrates are yez likely to fall?
Don’t whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?
Sure ‘tis botherin’ nonsinse to sit down and wape
Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.
Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt
But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!
Thin don’t yez be gravin’ no more;
Arrah! quit all yer sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s Barney O’Flannigan right to the fore,
And bedad! he’s a gintleman born!
II.
Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don’t yez be scairt!
Have yez batin’ and lumberin’ thumps at the hairt,
Wid ossification, and acceleration,
Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,
Wid liver inflation and hapitization,
Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,
Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,
Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,
Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,
Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,
Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,
Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?
Be the powers! but I’ll bring all yer woes to complation,
Onless yer in love—thin yer past all salvation!
Coom, don’t yez be gravin’ no more!
Be quit wid yer sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s the man all yer haling potations to pour,
And ye’ll prove him a gintleman born
III.
Sure, me frinds, ‘tis the wondherful luck I have had
In the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.
All the hundhreds I’ve cured ‘tis not aisy to shpake,
And if any sowl dies, faith I’m in at the wake;
There was Misthriss O’Toole was tuck down mighty quare,
That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;
And phat was the matther? Ye’ll like for to hare;
‘Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.
Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,
(Och, murther! but didn’t she howl at the pain!)
Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,
And troth she shtopped howlin’, and lay like a lamb.
