In the South Pacific Ocean
In an oiland called Koodoo,
An' the monarch ov thot oiland
Iz King Hulla-bulla-loo.
Oi wuz docthor to thot monarch
Wonct. Me name iz Pat O'Dooley.
Yis, you're roight. Oi come from Oirland,
From the County Ballyhooly.
An' Oi'll tell yez how Oi came to be
A docthor in Koodoo;
May the Divil burn the ind ov me,
If ivery word's not thrue.
Oi wuz sailin' to Ameriky,
Aboard the "Hilly Haully,"
Which wuz drounded in the ocean,
For the toime ov year wuz squally.
An' they wint an' told the King, sor,
Him called Hulla-bulla-loo.
"Ye come from Oirland, sor?" sez he.
"Bedad!" sez Oi, "thot's true."
Thin he whispered to the cook, sor;
An' the cook he giv me warnin':
"It's Oirish stew you'll be," sez he,
"To-morrow, come the marnin'."
The King wuz moighty bad,
Wid most odjus pains insoide him,
An' they nearly drove him mad;
So he sint a little note, sor,
By the cook, apologoizin'
For not cooking me that day, sor,
Wid politeness most surprisin'!
An' Oi wrote him back a letther,
Jist expressin' my regret,
Thot Oi shouldn't hiv the honor,
Sor, ov bein' cooked an' et;
An' Oi indid up the letther
Wid a midical expresshin,
As would lead him to imagine
Oi belonged to the professhin.
"If ye'll only save me loife,"
Sez he, "Oi'll give yez money,
An' a most attractive woife,
An' ye won't be in the menu
Ov me little dinner party
If ye'll only pull me round," sez he,
"An' make me sthrong an' hearty."
So Oi made a diagnosis
Wid my penknife an' some sthring
(Though Oi hadn't got a notion
How they made the blessid thing;
But Oi knew thot docthors did it
Phwen they undertook a case, sor),
An' Oi saw his pulse, an' filt his tongue,
An' pulled a sarious face, sor.
Thin Oi troied a bit ov blarney.
"Plaze, yer gracious Madjisty,
It's yer brains iz much too big, sor,
For yer cranium, ye see."
But the King he looked suspicious,
An' he giv a moighty frown, sor.
"The pain's not there at all," sez he,
"The pain is further down, sor."
By raisin ov the wet,
An' it made the foinist pill, sor,
Thot Oi've iver seen as yet;
It wuz flavoured rayther sthrongly
Wid salt wather an' tobaccy,
But, be jabers, sor, it did the thrick,
An' cured the blissid blackie!
The King wuz as deloighted,
An' as grateful as could be,
An' he got devorced from all his woives,
An' giv the lot to me;
But a steamer, passin' handy,
Wuz more plazin' to "yours trooly,"
An' among the passingers aboard
Wuz the "Docthor",—Pat O'Dooley.