Part 14 (1/2)

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 jact.i.tation and exacerbation, Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation, Wid quare t.i.tillation 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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.

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 diaph.o.r.etics 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 sh.o.r.e, 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, 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.