And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile!
And says she (whin she died), “Och, dochther, me honey,
‘Tis you as can give us the worth av our money;
And begorra, I’ll shpake to the divil this day
Not to kape yez a-waitin’ too long for yer pay.”
So don’t yez be gravin’ no more!
To the dogs wid yer sighin’ forlorn!
Here’s dhrugs be the handful and pills be the score,
And to dale thim a gintleman born.
VII.
There was Teddy Maloney who bled at the nose
Afther blowin’ the fife; and mayhap ye’d suppose
‘Twas no matther at all; but the books all agrade
Twas a serious visceral throuble indade;
Wid the blood swimmin’ roond in a circle elliptic,
The Schneidarian membrane was wantin’ a shtyptic;
The anterior nares were nadin’ a plug,
And Teddy himself was in nade av a jug.
Thin I rowled out a big pill av sugar av lead,
And I dosed him, and shtood him up firm on his head,
And says I: “Now, me lad, don’t be atin’ yer lingth,
But dhrink all ye plaze, jist to kape up yer shtringth.”
Faith! His widdy’s a jewel! But whisht! don’t ye shpake!
She’ll be Misthriss O’Flannigan airly nixt wake.
Coom, don’t yez be gravin’ no more!
Shmall use av yer sighin’ forlorn;
For yer widdies, belike, whin their mournin’ is o’er,
May marry some gintleman born.
VIII.
Ould Biddy O’Cardigan lived all alone,
And she felt mighty nate wid a house av her own—
Shwate-smellin’ and houlsome, swaped clane wid a rake,
Wid two or thray pigs jist for company’s sake.
Well, phat should she get but the malady vile
Av cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile!
And she sint straight for me: “Dochther Barney, me lad,”
Says she, “I’m in nade av assistance, bedad!
Have yez niver a powdher or bit av a pill?
Me shtomick’s a rowlin’; jist make it kape shtill!”
“I’m the boy can do that,” says I; “hould on a minit,
Here’s me midicine-chist wid me calomel in it,
And I’ll make yez a bowle full av rid pipper tay
So shtrong ye’ll be thinkin’ the divil’s to pay,”
Now don’t yez be gravin’ no more!
Be quit wid yer sighin’ forlorn,
Wid shtrychnine and vitriol and opium galore,
Behould me—a gintleman born.
IX.
Wid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created,
Shwate, wid musthard and shpice; and the poker I hated
As rid as a guinea jist out av the mint—
And into her shtomick, begorra, it wint!
Och, niver belave me, but didn’t she roar!
I’d have kaped her alive wid a quart or two more;
