The Wit of Women

"Come over to my house, honey," he whispered, "an' bring a pen an' ink an' a piece o' paper wid yer. I wants yer ter write me a letter."

I ran into the house for my little writing-desk, and followed Uncle Ned to his cabin.

"Now, honey," he said, after barring the door carefully, "don't you ax me no questions, but jes' put down de words dat comes out o' my mouf on dat ar paper."

"Very well, Uncle Ned, go on."

"Anniky Hobbleston," he began, "dat weddin' ain't a-gwine ter come off. You cleans up too much ter suit me. I ain't used ter so much water splashin' aroun'. Dirt is warmin'. 'Spec I'd freeze dis winter if you wuz here. An' you got too much tongue. Besides, I's got anudder wife over in Tipper. An' I ain't a-gwine ter marry. As fur havin' de law, I's a leavin' dese parts, an' I takes der pigs wid me. Yer can't fin' dem, an' yer can't fin' me. Fur I ain't a-gwine ter marry. I wuz born a bachelor, an' a bachelor will I represent myself befo' de judgment-seat. If you gives yer promise ter say no mo' 'bout dis marryin' business, p'r'aps I'll come back some day. So no mo' at present, from your humble worshipper,

"Ned Cuddy."

"Isn't that last part rather inconsistent?" said I, greatly amused.

"Yes, honey, if yer says so; an' it's kind o' soothin' to de feelin's of a woman, yer know."

I wrote it all down and read it aloud to Uncle Ned.

"Now, my chile," he said, "I'm a-gwine ter git on my mule as soon as der moon rises, an' drive my pigs ter Col' Water Gap, whar I'll stay an' fish. Soon as I am well gone, you take dis letter ter Anniky; but min', don't tell whar I's gone. An' if she takes it all right, an' promises ter let me alone, you write me a letter, an' I'll git de fust Methodis' preacher I run across in der woods ter read it ter me. Den, ef it's all right, I'll come back an' weed yer flower-garden fur yer as purty as preachin'."

I agreed to do all uncle Ned asked, and we parted like conspirators. The next morning Uncle Ned was missing, and, after waiting a reasonable time I explained the matter to my parents, and went over with his letter to Aunt Anniky.

"Powers above!" was her only comment as I got through the remarkable epistle. Then, after a pause to collect her thoughts, she seized me by the shoulder, saying: "Run to yo' pappy, honey, quick, an' ax him ef he's gwine ter stick ter his bargain 'bout de teef. Yer know he pintedly said dey wuz a weddin' gif'."

Of course my father sent word that she must keep the teeth, and my mother added a message of sympathy, with a present of a pocket-handkerchief to dry Aunt Anniky's tears.

"But it's all right," said that sensible old soul, opening her piano-lid with a cheerful laugh. "Bless you, chile, it wuz de teef I wanted, not de man! An', honey, you jes' sen' word to dat shif'less old nigger, ef you know whar he's gone, to come back home and git his crap in de groun'; an', as fur as I'm consarned, yer jes' let him know dat I wouldn't pick him up wid a ten-foot pole, not ef he wuz to beg me on his knees till de millennial day." —From "Dialect Tales," published in 1883 by Harper Brothers.

It is not easy to tell what satire is, or where it originated. "In Eden," says Dryden, "the husband and wife excused themselves by laying the blame on each other, and gave a beginning to those conjugal dialogues in prose which poets have perfected in verse." Whatever it may be, we know it when it cuts us, and Sherwood Bonner's hit on the Radical Club of Boston was almost inexcusable.

She was admitted as a guest, and her subsequent ridicule was a violation of all good breeding. But like so many wicked things it is captivating, and while you are shocked, you laugh. While I hold up both hands in horror, I intend to give you an idea of it; leaving out the most personal verses.

THE RADICAL CLUB

BY SHERWOOD BONNERDear friends, I crave attention to some facts that I shall mentionAbout a Club called "Radical," you haven't heard before;Got up to teach the nation was this new light federation,To teach the nation how to think, to live, and to adore;To teach it of the heights and depths that all men should explore;Only this and nothing more.It is not my inclination, in this brief communication,To produce a false impression – which I greatly would deplore —But a few remarks I'm makin' on some notes a chiel's been takin,'And, if I'm not mistaken, they'll make your soul upsoar,As you bend your eyes with eagerness to scan these verses o'er;Truly this and something more.And first, dear friends, the fact is, I'm sadly out of practice,And may fail in doing justice to this literary bore;But when I do begin it, I don't think 'twill take a minuteTo prove there's nothing in it (as you've doubtless heard before),But a free religious wrangling club – of this I'm very sure —Only this and nothing more!'Twas a very cordial greeting, one bright morning of their meeting;Such eager salutations were never heard before.After due deliberation on the importance of the occasion,To begin the organization, Mr. Pompous took the floorWith an air quite self-complacent, strutted up and took the floor,As he'd often done before!With an air of condescension he bespoke their close attentionTo an essay from a Wiseman versed in theologic lore;He himself had had the pleasure of a short glance at the treasure,And in no stinted measure said we had a treat in store;Then he waved his hand to Wiseman and resigned to him the floor;Only this and nothing more.Quick and nervous, short and wiry, with a look profound, yet fiery,Mr. Wiseman now stepped forward and eyed us darkly o'er,Then an arm-chair, quaint and olden, gay with colors green and golden,By the pretty hostess rolled in from its place behind the door,Was offered to the reader, in the centre of the floor,And he took the chair be sure.Then with arguments elastic, and a voice and eye sarcastic,Mr. Wiseman into flinders the Holy Bible tore;And he proved beyond all question that the God of Moses' mentionWas a fraudulent invention of some Hebrews, three or four,And the Son of God's ascension an imaginary soar!Only this and nothing more.Each member then admitted that his part was well acquitted,For his strong, impassioned reasoning had touched them to the core;He felt sure, as he surveyed them through his specs, that he had "played" them,And was proud that he had made them all astonished by his lore;Not a continental cared he for the fruits such lessons bore,So he bowed and left the floor.Then a Colonel, cold and smiling, with a stately air beguiling,Who punctuates his paragraphs on Newport's sounding shore,Said his friend was wise and witty, and yet it seemed a pityTo destroy in this old city the belief it had beforeIn the ancient superstitions of the days of yore.This he said, and something more.Orthodoxy, he lamented, thought the Christian world demented,Yet still he felt a rev'rence as he read the Bible o'er,And he thought the modern preacher, though a poor stick for a teacher,Or a broken reed, like Beecher, ought to have his claims looked o'er,And the "tyranny of science" was indeed, he felt quite sure,Our danger more and more.His remarks our pulses quicken, when a British Lion, strickenWith his wondrous self-importance – he knew everything and more —Said he loathed such moderation; and he made his declarationThat, in spite of all creation, he found no God to adore;And his voice was like the ocean as its surges loudly roar;Only this and nothing more.But the interest now grew lukewarm, for an ancient Concord book-wormWith authoritative tramping, forward came and took the floor,And in Orphic mysticisms talked of life and light and prisms,And the Infinite baptisms on a transcendental shore,And the concrete metaphysic, till we yawned in anguish sore;But still he kept the floor.Then uprose a kindred spirit almost ready to inheritThe rare and radiant Aiden that he begged us to adore;His smile was beaming brightly, and his soft hair floated whitelyRound a face as fair and sightly as a pious priest's of yore;And we forgave the arguments worn out years before,For we loved this saintly bore.Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer,Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore,Said she had no "views" of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us,But that she thought 'twould please us to look her figure o'er,For she wore no bustles anywhere, and corsets, she felt sure,Should squeeze her nevermore.This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religionDemanded ease of body before the mind could soar;But that no emancipation could come unto our nationUntil the aggregation of the clothes that women woreWere suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,Plain behind and plain before!Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed the Index teaching,And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermoreThe light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;Truly this, but something more!Then with eyes as bright as Phœbus, and hair dark as Erebus,A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,And indorsed the Index editor in every word he swore,And then – said nothing more.Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber(And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;But a bad gold in his 'ead bust stop his saying bore,And we all cried encore.Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portalOf Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o'er and o'erThe old, old vexing questions of the why and the wherefore,And taught us – nothing more.There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,And at first 'twas my intention, but at present I forbear;There's young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;If you could only see them, you'd laugh till you were sore,And then you'd laugh some more.But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o'er;In their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable schemingFor a sinful world's redeeming, common sense flies out the door,And the long-drawn dissertations come to – words and nothing more;Only words, and nothing more.

Mary Clemmer Hudson has spoken of Phœbe Cary as "the wittiest woman in America." But she truly adds:

"A flash of wit, like a flash of lightning, can only be remembered, it cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel lies in its spontaneity and evanescence; its power is in being struck from the present. Divorced from that, the keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. We read over the few remaining sentences which attempt to embody the repartees and bon mots of the most famous wits of society, such as Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, Madame du Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu; we wonder at the poverty of these memorials of their fame. Thus it must be with Phœbe Cary. Her most brilliant sallies were perfectly unpremeditated, and by herself never repeated or remembered. When she was in her best moods they came like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were delighted, and afterward found it difficult to single out any distinct flash or separate meteor from the multitude… This most wonderful of her gifts can only be represented by a few stray sentences gleaned here and there from the faithful memories of loving friends…

"One tells how, at a little party, where fun rose to a great height, one quiet person was suddenly attacked by a gay lady with the question: 'Why don't you laugh? You sit there just like a post!'

"'There! she called you a post; why don't you rail at her?' was Phœbe's quick exclamation.

"Mr. Barnum mentioned to her that the skeleton man and the fat woman then on exhibition in his 'greatest show on earth' were married.

"'I suppose they loved through thick and thin,' was her comment.

"'On one occasion, when Phœbe was at the Museum looking about at the curiosities,' says Mr. Barnum, 'I preceded her and had passed down a couple of steps. She, intently watching a big anaconda in a case at the top of the stairs, walked off, not noticing them, and fell. I was just in time to catch her in my arms and save her from a good bruising.'

"'I am more lucky than that first woman was who fell through the influence of the serpent,' said Phœbe, as she recovered herself.

"And when asked by some one at a dinner-party what brand of champagne they kept, she replied: 'Oh, we drink Heidsieck, but we keep Mum.'

"Again, a certain well-known actor, then recently deceased, and more conspicuous for his professional skill than for his private virtues, was discussed. 'We shall never,' remarked some one, 'see – again.'

"'No,' quietly responded Phœbe, 'not unless we go to the pit.'"

These stray shots may not fairly represent Miss Cary's brilliancy, but we are grateful for what has been preserved, meagre as it would seem to those who had the privilege of knowing her intimately and enjoying those Sunday evening receptions, where, unrestrained and happy, every one was at his best.

Her verses on the subject of Woman's Rights, as discussed in masculine fashion, with masculine logic, by Chanticleer Dorking, are capital, and her parodies, shockingly literal, have been widely copied. Enjoy these as given in her life, written by Mary Clemmer.

CHAPTER VI

GINGER-SNAPS

I will now offer you some good things of various degrees of humor. I do not feel it necessary to impress their merits upon you, for they speak for themselves Here is a quaint bit of satire from a bright Boston woman, which those on her side of the vexed Indian question will enjoy:

THE INDIAN AGENT

BY LOUISA HALL

He was a long, lean man, with a sad expression, as if weighed down by pity for poor humanity. His heart was evidently a great many sizes too large for him. He yearned to enfold all tribes and conditions of men in his encircling arms. He surveyed his audience with such affectionate interest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their pockets.

A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the majority knew that this artifice would not save them, and they rather enjoyed it as a species of harmless dissipation. They liked to be talked into a state of exhilaration which obliged them to give without thinking much about it, and they felt very good and benevolent afterward. So they cheered the agent enthusiastically, as a signal for him to begin, and he came forward bowing, while the three red brothers who accompanied him remained seated on the platform. He appeared to smile on every one present as he said:

"Friends and Fellow-Citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you these chiefs of the Laughing Dog Nation. Twenty-five years ago this tribe was one of the fiercest on our Western plains. Snarling Bear, the most noted chief of his tribe, was a great warrior. Fifty scalps adorned his wigwam. Some of them had once belonged to his best friends. He was murdered while in the prime of life by a white man whose wife he had accidentally shot at the door of her cabin. He was one of the first to welcome the white men and adopt the improvements they brought with them. When he became sufficiently civilized to understand that polygamy was unlawful, he separated from his oldest wife. Her scalp was carefully preserved among those of the great warriors he had conquered. His son, Flying Deer, who is with us to-day, will address you in his own language, which I shall interpret for you. The last twenty years have made a great change in their condition. These men are not savages, but educated gentlemen. They are all graduates of Tomahawk College, at Bloody Mountain, near the Gray Wolf country. They are chiefs of their tribes, each one holding a position equal to the Governor of our own State. Their influence at the West is great. Last year they sent a small party of missionaries to the highlands of the Wolf country, where the women and children pasture the ponies during the dry season. Not one of these noble men ever returned. Unfortunately for the success of this mission, the Gray Wolf warriors were at home. The medicine man's dreams had been unfavorable, and they dared not set out on their annual hunt. This year they will send a larger party well armed.

"These devoted men have left their Western homes and come here to assure you of their confidence in your affection, and the love and gratitude they feel toward you. They come to ask for churches and schools, that their children may grow up like yours. But these things require money. On account of the great scarcity of stone in the Rocky Mountains, and the necessity of preserving standing timber for the Indian hunting-grounds, all building materials for churches and school-houses must be carried from the East at great expense. The door-steps of the third orthodox Kickapoo church cost one hundred and fifty dollars. But it is money well invested. The gradual decrease of crime at the West has convinced the most sceptical that a great work can be done among these people. The number of murders committed in this country last year was one hundred and twenty-five; this year only one hundred and twenty-three.

"Although a great deal has been done for these people, you will be surprised to learn how much remains to be done. I need not tell you that every dollar intrusted to me will be spent, and I hope you will live to see the result of your generosity.

"I wish to build at least fifteen churches and school-houses before the cold weather sets in. The cost of building has been greatly lessened by employing native workmen, who are capable of designing and erecting simple edifices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, and the expense of light and heat will be paid by the congregation.

"We have at least twenty-five well-qualified native teachers, who will require no salary beyond the necessary expense of food and clothing.

"A few boarding-houses must be built and tastefully furnished. We have a large number of Laughing Dog widows, who would gladly take charge of such establishments.

"The native committee will make a careful selection of such matrons as are most capable of guiding and encouraging young people.

"All money for the benefit of these people has been used with the strictest economy; and will be while I retain the agency. I have secured a slender provision for my declining years, and shall return to spend my days with my adopted people.

"But I will let these men who once owned this great country speak for themselves. Flying Deer, who will now address you, is about forty years of age. He lives with his wife and ten children near the agency, at a place called Humanketchet."

Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, though rapidly.

"O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw choo kibbe showain nemeshin. Dawmasse choochugah goo waugh; kawboo. Nokka brewis goo, honowin nudwag moonoo shugh kawmun menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gessonwon goo. Nahna naskeen oza yenadisse mayben mudjo, kenemoosha. Wawconassee nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, wabenas ogu winemon jabs. Ahmuck wana wayroossen chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, kewadoda shenghen kad goo tagamengow."

"He says, my friends, that he has always loved and trusted the white people. He says that since he has seen the great cities and towns of the East, he loves his white brothers more than before. His red brothers, White Crow and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love you. He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot and scalp them if they continue friendly to the whites. He asks for powder, guns, and ponies, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. He wants to convince you that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The assistance you are about to give will only be required for a short time. They will soon become self-supporting, and relieve the Government of a heavy tax. They thank you for the kindness you have shown, and for the generous collection which will now be taken up.

"Will some friend close the doors while we give every one an opportunity to contribute to this good cause? Remember that he who shutteth up his ears to the cry of the poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be heard. Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham at the door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial tokens of your regard will cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose.

"In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank you."

If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. Lippincott.

MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION

BY GRACE GREENWOODNo! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget,Like you, in disputin' with men —Would I fly in the face of the blissedApostles, an' Father Maginn?It isn't the talent I'm wantin' —Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,Made a beautiful last spache and confessionWhen they hanged him in ould Tipperary.So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'About Womins' Rights, and all that!Sure all the rights I want is the one right,To be a good helpmate to Pat;For he's a good husband – and niverLays on me the weight of his handExcept when he's far gone in liquor,And I nag him, you'll plase understand.Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin',That's becaze I disputed his right,To tak' and spind all my week's earnin'sAt Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.But it's sildom when I've done a washin',He'll ask for more'n half of the pay;An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,That's like a swate mornin' in May!Now where, if I rin to convintions,Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday,Or patch up his ould corduroys.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 shindiesWhin 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

II'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 acheIn 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 wapeWhin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubtBut 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!IICoom thin, ye poor craytures and don't yez be scairt!Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt,Wid ossification, and acceleration,Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,Wid liver inflation and hapitization,Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?Be the powers! but I'll bring all yer woes to complation,Onless yer in love – thin yer past all salvation!Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn;Here's the man all yer haling potations to pour,And ye'll prove him a gintleman bornIIISure, me frinds, 'tis the wondherful luck I have hadIn the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.All the hundhreds I've cured 'tis not aisy to shpake,And if any sowl dies, faith I'm in at the wake;There was Misthriss O'Toole was tuck down mighty quare,That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;And phat was the matther? Ye'll like for to hare;'Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,(Och, murther! but didn't she howl at the pain!)Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,And troth she shtopped howlin', and lay like a lamb.Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.Och! niver be gravin' no more!Phat use av yer sighin' forlorn?Me patients are proud av me midical lore —They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.IVWell, Misthriss O'Toole was tuck betther at once,For she riz up in bed and cried: "Paddy, ye dunce!Give the dochther a dhram." So I sat at me aiseA-brewin' the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.Thin I lift a prascription all written down nateWid ametics and diaphoretics complate;Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,And a toddy so shtiff that ye'd all like to thry it.So Paddy O'Toole mixed 'em well in a cup —All barrin' the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;For he shwore 'twas a shame sich good brandy to wasteOn a double quotidian faverish taste;And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night – at the wake!Arrah! don't yez be gravin' no more,Wid yer moanin' and sighin' forlorn;Here's Barney O'Flannigan thrue to the coreAv the hairt of a gintleman born!VThere was Michael McDonegan down wid a fitCaught av dhrinkin' cowld watther – whin tipsy – a bit.'Twould have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry outFor 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 shpellCaught 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.VIThere 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 diathesisOf 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 dayNot 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.VIIThere was Teddy Maloney who bled at the noseAfther blowin' the fife; and mayhap ye'd suppose'Twas no matther at all; but the books all agradeTwas 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.VIIIOuld 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 vileAv 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 taySo 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.IXWid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created,Shwate, wid musthard and shpice; and the poker I hatedAs 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 ownWouldn'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?