Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,
I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.
Och! niver be gravin’ no more!
Phat use av yer sighin’ forlorn?
Me patients are proud av me midical lore—
They’ll shware I’m a gintleman born.
IV.
Well, Misthriss O’Toole was tuck betther at once,
For she riz up in bed and cried: “Paddy, ye dunce!
Give the dochther a dhram.” So I sat at me aise
A-brewin’ the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.
Thin I lift a prascription all written down nate
Wid ametics and diaphoretics complate;
Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,
And a toddy so shtiff that ye’d all like to thry it.
So Paddy O’Toole mixed ‘em well in a cup—
All barrin’ the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;
For he shwore ‘twas a shame sich good brandy to waste
On a double quotidian faverish taste;
And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,
Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night—at the wake!
Arrah! don’t yez be gravin’ no more,
Wid yer moanin’ and sighin’ forlorn;
Here’s Barney O’Flannigan thrue to the core
Av the hairt of a gintleman born!
V.
There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fit
Caught av dhrinkin’ cowld watther—whin tipsy—a bit.
‘Twould have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry out
For a cup of potheen or a tankard av shtout,
Or a wee dhrap av whiskey, new out av the shtill;—
And the shnakes that he saw—troth ‘twas jist fit to kill!
It was Mania Pototororum, bedad!
Holy Mither av Moses! the divils he had!
Thin to scare ‘em away we surroonded his bed,
Clapt on forty laches and blisthered his head,
Bate all the tin pans and set up sich a howl,
That the last fiery divil ran off, be me sowl!
And we writ on his tombsthone, “He died av a shpell
Caught av dhrinkin’ cowld watther shtraight out av a well.”
Now don’t yez be gravin’ no more,
Surrinder yer sighin’ forlorn!
‘Twill be fine whin ye cross to the Stygian shore,
To be sint by a gintleman born.
VI.
There was swate Ellen Mulligan, sazed wid a cough,
And ivery one said it would carry her off.
“Whisht,” says I, “thrust to me, now, and don’t yez go crazy;
If the girlie must die, sure I’ll make her die aisy!”
So I sairched through me books for the thrue diathesis
Of morbus dyscrasia tuburculous phthasis;
And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics.
Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics;
Wid whiskey served shtraight in the finest av shtyle,
