Av coorse ye’ll be wanting a plasther.
Don’t sind for a surgeon, thim’s niver no use—
Sure their thrade is to cut and to quarther—
They’d be dealing wid you, as you’d dale wid a goose:
Thry a poultice iv Whisky and Wather.
Av ye can’t sleep at night, an ye rowl in yer bed
(And that’s mighty disthressin’—no doubt iv it),
Till ye don’t know the front from the back iv yer head,
The best thing ye can do is—rowl out iv it.
Av ye’ve let out the fire, and can’t get a light,