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,
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;
And the thray little pigs in that house av her own
Wouldn’t now be a-shtarvin’ and shqualin’ alone.
And that gossoon, her boy—the shpalpeen altogither!—
Would niver have shworn that I murdhered his mither.
Troth, for sayin’ that same, but I served him a thrick,
Whin I met him by chance wid a bit av a shtick.
Faith, I dochthered him well till the cure I complated,
And, be jabers! there’s one man alive that I thrated!
So don’t yez be gravin’ no more;
To the dogs wid yez sighin’ forlorn!
Arrah! knock whin ye’re sick at O’Flannigan’s door,
And die for a gintleman born!
—_Scribner’s Magazine._ 1880.
Or, if one prefers to laugh at the experience of a “culled” brother, what can be found more irresistible than this?
THE OLD-TIME RELIGION.
BY JULIA PICKERING.
Brother Simon. I say, Brover Horace, I hearn you give Meriky de terriblest beating las’ nite. What you and she hab a fallin’-out about?
Brother Horace. Well, Brover Simon, you knows yourself I never has no dejection to splanifying how I rules my folks at home, and ‘stablishes order dar when it’s p’intedly needed; and ‘fore gracious! I leab you to say dis time ef ‘twant needed, and dat pow’ful bad.
You see, I’se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, an’ hain’t never had no use for new fandangles, let it be what it mout; ‘ligion, polytix, bisness—don’t ker what. Ole Horace say: “De ole way am de bes’ way, an’ you niggers dat’s all runnin’ teetotleum crazy ‘bout ebery new gimerack dat’s started, better jes’ stay whar you is and let them things alone.” But dey won’t do it; no ‘mount of preaching won’t sarve um. And dat is jes’ at this partickeler pint dat Meriky got dat dressin’. She done been off to Richmun town, a-livin’ in sarvice dar dis las’ winter, and Saturday a week ago she camed home ter make a visit. Course we war all glad to see our darter. But you b’l’eve dat gal hadn’t turned stark bodily naked fool? Yes, sir; she wa’n’t no more like de Meriky dat went away jes’ a few munts ago dan chalk’s like cheese. Dar she come in wid her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from squattin’, an’ her ha’r a-danglin’ right in her eyes, jes’ for all de worl’ like a ram a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you think dat nigger hain’t forgot how to talk! She jes’ rolled up her eyes ebery oder word, and fanned and talked like she ‘spected to die de nex’ breff. She’d toss dat mush-head ob hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. ‘Stead ob she call-in’ ob me “daddy” and her mudder “mammy,” she say: “Par and mar, how can you bear to live in sech a one-hoss town as this? Oh! I think I should die.” And right about dar she hab all de actions ob an’ old drake in a thunder-storm. I jes’ stared at dat gal tell I make her out, an’ says I to myself: “It’s got to come;” but I don’t say nothin’ to nobody ‘bout it—all de same I knowed it had to come fus’ as las’. Well, I jes’ let her hab more rope, as de sayin’ is, tell she got whar I ‘cluded war ‘bout de end ob her tedder. Dat was on last Sunday mornin’, when she went to meetin’ in sich a rig, a-puttin’ on airs, tell she couldn’t keep a straight track. When she camed home she brung kumpny wid her, and, ob course, I couldn’t do nuthin’ then; but I jes’ kept my ears open, an’ ef dat gal didn’t disquollify me dat day, you ken hab my hat. Bimeby dey all gits to talkin’ ‘bout ‘ligion and de churches, and den one young buck he step up, an’ says he: “Miss Meriky, give us your ‘pinion ‘bout de matter.” Wid dat she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an’ says she: “I takes no intelligence in sich matters; dey is all too common for me. Baptisses is a foot or two below my grade. I ‘tends de ‘Pisclopian Church whar I resides, an’ ‘specs to jine dat one de nex’ anniversary ob de bishop. Oh! dey does eberything so lovely, and in so much style. I declar’ nobody but common folks in de city goes to de Babtiss Church. It made me sick ‘t my stomuck to see so much shoutin’ and groanin’ dis mornin’; ‘tis so ungenteel wid us to make so much sarcumlocutions in meetin’.” And thar she went a-giratin’ ‘bout de preacher a-comin’ out in a white shirt, and den a-runnin’ back and gittin’ on a black one, and de people a-jumpin’ up and a-jawin’ ob de preacher outen a book, and a-bowin’ ob deir heads, and a-saying long rigmaroles o’ stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, and were dat mad at de gal I jes’ couldn’t see nuffin’ in dat room. Well, I jes’ waited tell the kumpny riz to go, and den I steps up, and says I: “Young folks, you needn’t let what Meriky told you ‘bout dat church put no change inter you. She’s sorter out ob her right mine now, but de nex’ time you comes she’ll be all right on dat and seberal oder subjicks;” and den dey stared at Meriky mighty hard and goed away.