(Musha, why d’ye talk like that—can’t ye wait till we’re goin’ home?)
Anonymous.
“I’M NOT GOIN’ TO FALL, MISTHER MOORE! TAKE YOUR ARM FROM AROUND MY WAIST.”
WHISKY AND WATHER.
It’s all mighty fine what Taytotallers say,
“That ye’re not to go dhrinking of sperits,
But to keep to pump wather, and gruel, and tay”—
Faith, ye’d soon have a face like a ferret’s.
I don’t care one sthraw what such swaddlers may think,