“Well, ’tis spankin’ is the medicin I perscroibe fer the disease of the Suff-Rage-Ett; an’ they must git it befure they get healthy agin. Oi moind me frind Casey, who wint wan toime to a Dochther about his woife, who cut up the very Divil wid phat she called High Stroikes. Wan Sundah she clawed the shirt buzzum roight off him, so he culdent go to mass. Well, oim tellin’ ye wan day Casey consults a dochther. The dochther was a woize guy. He looked Lizzie over. That waz her name, an’ she waz a great, good looker, an’ only about twinty years ould. An’ he sez to Casey, sez he, whin he got him alone:
“Ile give ye a perscripthion fer her,” sez he.
“Yiss,” sez Casey.
“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “’tis very simple.”
“Yiss,” sez Casey; all attention.
“Yiss,” sez the dochther, “give her a wet towel,” sez he.
“How’s that?” sez Casey. “A wet towel?”
“Yes; bate her wid it till she’s a noice pink,” sez he.
“Howley murdher,” sez Casey, “yer laffin’ at me.”
“Oi am not,” sez the dochther. “Troy it,” sez he.