Dooley. "What's the matter wid ye anyhow, Mick—all tattered an' torrun an' bitten an' scratched all over?"
Mick. "Ay, an' me own dog done it! I want home sober last noight, an' the baste didn't know me!"
Pat (who has been acting as guide, and has been pointing out the devil's this and the devil's that for the last two hours). "An' that's the devil's puch-bowl, yer anner." Tourist. "The devil seems to own a good deal of property about here, Pat!" Pat. "Ye're roight, yer anner. But, loike most av the other landlords, he spinds most av his toime in London!"
Traveller. "Get on, man; get on! Wake up your nag." Driver. "Shure, sorr, I haven't the heart to bate him." Traveller. "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?" Driver. "No, sor, he's not sick, but it's unlucky 'e is, sor, unlucky! You see, sor, every morning, afore I put 'im in the car, I tosses 'im whether 'ell have a feed of oats, or I'll have a dhrink of whisky, an' the poor baste has lost five mornings running!"