Don’t go scalding yerself wid hot bottles:
(Tho’ thim’s betther, they tell me, than hot flannel bags),
And take no docthor’s stuff down your throttles;
But just tell the misthress to hate the tin pot—
(Maybe one for tay ye’ll have bought her)—
And keep dosing yerself off and an, hot and hot,
Till ye’re aisy—wid Whisky and Wather.
Av ye go to a fair, as it maybe ye might,
And ye meet with some thrilling disasther,
Such as having the head iv ye broken outright,