e 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.
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,
Bat