WHISKY AND WATHER.

It’s all mighty fine what Taytotallers say, “That ye’re not to go dhrinking of sperits, But to keep to pump wather, and gruel, and tay”— Faith, ye’d soon have a face like a ferret’s. I don’t care one sthraw what such swaddlers may think, (Ye’ll find them in every quarther), The wholesomest liquor in life you can dhrink, I’ll be bail, now, is Whisky and Wather. Don’t go dhrinking of Brandy, or Hollands, or Shrub, Or Gin—thim’s all docthored, dipind an it— Or ye’ll soon have a nose that ye niver can rub, For the blossoms ye’ll grow at the ind iv it; But the “raal potheen” it’s a babby may take Before its long clothes are cut shorther; In as much as would swim ye there’s divil an ache, Av it’s not mixed with too much could wather. Do ye like thim small dhrinks? Dhrink away by all manes— I wonst thried Ginger Beer to my sorrow— Ye’ll be tuck jist as I was, wid all sorts of pains, And ye’ll see what ye’re like on the morrow. Ye’ll find ye can’t ate—no, nor walk—for the wind; Ye’ll have cheeks jist the colour of morthar; Av ye call in the docthor he’ll jist recommind A hot tumbler of Whisky and Wather. Av the colic you get, or the cramp in your legs, 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, 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, Feel yer way to the crock, till ye’ve caught her (In the dark it’s ye are, so remimber, hould tight), Take a pull—an’ thin dhrink some could wather. Av ye meet wid misfortune, beyant your controwl, Av disease gets a hould iv the praties, Or the slip iv a pig gets the masles, poor sowl; No matther how sarious yer case is— Don’t go walking about wid yer hands crossed behind, And a face like a cow’s—only shorther,— Sure the best way to keep up yer sperits, ye’ll find Is to keep to hot Whisky and Wather. It’s in more ways than thim ye’ll find whisky yer frind, Sure it’s not only jist while ye dhrink it— It has vartues on which ye can always depind— And perhaps, too, when laste ye would think it. One fine summer’s day, it was coorting I wint, To make love to Dame Flanagan’s daughter— And I won her—and got the old woman’s consint: Sure I did it wid Whisky and Wather. In the Liffey I tumbled, one could winther’s day, And, bedad, it was coulder than plisint, Out they fished me, and stretched me full length on the quay, But the divil a docthor was prisint, When a blessed ould woman of eighty came by (There’s no doubt expariance had taught her), And—in jist a pig’s whisper—I tell ye no lie— Fetched me to, wid hot Whisky and Wather. It’s the loveliest liquor ye iver can take, And no matther how often ye take it; The great thing is never to mix it too wake: And see now—it’s this way ye make it: Take three lumps of sugar—it’s jist how ye feel— About whisky, not less than one quarther; No limon—the laste taste in life of the peel, And be sure you put screeching hot wather. It’ll make ye, all over, as warm as a toast, And yer heart jist as light as a feather; Sure it’s mate, dhrink, and washing, and lodging almost, And the great-coat itself, in could weather. Oh! long life to the man that invinted potheen— Sure the Pope ought to make him a marthyr— If myself was this moment Victoria, our queen, I’d dhrink nothing but Whisky and Wather! Anonymous.