Rather Twangy
by
Three Irishmen, green as the Isle that per-duced ’em, but full of sin, and fond of the crater, broke into a country store down in Maine, one night last week, and after striking a light, they lit upon a large demijohn, having the suspicious look of a whiskey holder. One held the light, while another held up the demi to his mouth, and took a small taster.
“Arrah, what a twang! An’ it’s what they call Shemaky, I’m thinkin’!” says the fellow, screwing his face into all manner of puckers.
“It’s the very stuff, thin, for me, so hould the light, and I’ll take a swig at ‘im,” says Paddy number two. ” Agh! ” says he, putting down the demijohn in haste, “it’s rale bhrandy– agh-h! “
“Branthy? Thin it’s meself as’ll have a wee bit uv a swig at ’em,” and Paddy number three took hold, and down he rushed a good slew of it!
“Murther and turf! It’s every divil ov us are pizened–o-o-och! Murther-r-r!” and he raised such a hullaballoo, that the neighbors were awakened. They came rushing in, and arrested Paddy number three. The others fled, with their bellies full of washing fluid! The poor fellow had drank nearly a pint; being possessed with a gutta percha stomach, he stood the infliction without kicking the bucket, but he was bleached, in two days–white as a bolt of cotton cloth!