"He used to be a goat-herd in Donegal once upon a time when cows were kine and eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of giants."
"Wot!"
"I often met him there, going out to the pastures, with a herd of goats before him and a herd of goats behind him and a salmon tied to the laces of his brogues for supper."
"I wish we 'ad somethin' for supper," said Bill.
"Hold your tongue. He has lived for many thousands of years, has Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran," I said, "but he hasn't reached the first year of his old age yet. Long ago when there were kings galore in Ireland, he went out to push his fortune about the season of Michaelmas and the harvest moon. He came to Tirnan-Oge, the land of Perpetual Youth which is flowing with milk and honey."
"I wish this trench was!"
"Bill!"
"But you're balmy, chum," said the Cockney, "'owitzers talkin' and then this feller. Ye're pullin' my leg."
"I'm afraid you're not intellectual enough to understand the psychology of a trench-howitzer or the temperament of Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, Bill."
"'Ad 'e a finance?" [2]