"What's that?" says the Pope.
"The schrew, to be sure," says his Riv'rence.
"Sure the cork's dhrew," says the Pope.
"But the sperits can't get out on account of the accidents that's stuck in the neck ov the bottle," says his Riv'rence.
"Accident ought to be passable to sperit," says the Pope, "and that makes me suspect that the reality ov the cork's in it afther all."
"That's a barony-masia," says his Riv'rence, "and I'm not bound to answer it. But the fact is, that it's the accidents ov the sperits too that's in it, and the reality's passed out through the cortical spacies as you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in raal good sperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and where else would the raal sperits come from if they would't come out ov the bottle?"
"Well, then," says the Pope, "since we've got the reality, there's no use throubling ourselves wid the accidents."
"Oh, begad," says his Riv'rence, "the accidents is very essential too; for a man may be in the best of good sperits, as far as his immaterial part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt the sinsible thirst out ov him." So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and sets about brewing the other skillet ov scaltheen; but, faix, he had to get up the ingredients this time by the hands ov ould Molly; though devil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same decoction.
But, my dear, here's the Freeman's Journal, and we'll see what's the news afore we finish the residuary proceedings ov their two Holinesses.