If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin',
Our dilicate charms will all flee—
The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,
The down from the pache—don't you see?
We'll soon tak' to shillalahs and shindies
Whin 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.