Sorra much the potecars knows about the use o' them; they kill more than they cure wid 'em, and calls them that understands what they're good for rogues and quacks.

May the Lord forgive them this day! _Amin, acheernah!_ (Amen, O Lord!)" "And do you administer these herbs to the sick ?" "I do, sir, to the sick of all kinds--man and baste.

There's nothing like them, sir, bekaise it was to cure diseases of all kinds that the Lord, blessed be His name! _amin, acheernah!_ planted them in the earth for the use of his cratures.

Why, sir, will you listen to me now, and mark my words?
There never was a complaint that follied either man or baste, brute or bird, but a yarrib grows that 'ud cure it if it was known.

When the head's hot wid faver, and the heart low wid care, the yarrib is to be found that will cool the head and rise the heart." "Don't you think, now," said Woodward, imagining that he would catch him, "that a glass of wine, or, what is better still, a good glass of punch, would raise the heart better than all the herbs in the universe ?" "Lord bless me!" he exclaimed, as if in soliloquy; "the ignorance of the rich and wealthy, and of great people altogether, is unknown! Wine and punch! And what, will you tell me, does wine and punch come from?
Doesn't the wine come from the grapes that grow in forrin parts--sich as we have in our hot-houses--and doesn't the whiskey that you make your punch of grow from the honest barley in our own fields?
So much for your knowledge of yarribs." "Why, there you are right, my old friend.