in we get to be sovereign electors,
And turn all our husbands' hearts from us,
Thin what will we do for protectors?

We'll have to be crowners an' judges,
An' such like ould malefactors,
Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us;
Thin where will be our char-acters?

Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin'!
For sure as the blissed sun rolls,
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 prov