I must cross the broiny ocean.
And seek funds in Philadelphy some foine mornin'.
Toby (exploding). Yap! yap!! yap!!!
Sleepy Sage (stirring, and muttering). When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is "February Fill-dyke." Hey! ho! B-rtl-y-Quince B-wl-s the bellows-blower! As-m-ad the State-tinker! We-r the interrogative! Gad's my life! stolen away and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision! I have had a dream,—past the wit of man (as Bottom and the G. O. M. both put it) to say what dream it was: man is but an ass if he go about to expound this (Irish) dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if he offer to say what I had. Meseemed I was a sort of Hibernian Titania enamoured of——But the eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what I was enamoured of. I will get one of my young men to write a ballad of this Hibernian Midsummer-Madness Dream; it may well be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom. It seemed to be suggested by, and to be set to, music of a music-hally sort, tripping but thunderous and thrasonic, and——(rubs his eyes). Hillo!!! (To the three minstrels tuning up for another try.) Who in the name of Nox are you? I twig, I twig! Cacophony incarnate, Shindy in soot, triple-headed Cerberus of Row, I know you! Get out!!! Have I not had enough of you in town ever since February, but that you must impudently intrude upon my holiday quiet, my rural rest, my sea-side seclusion?
Don't come unto these yellow sands,
Corked mugs and hands!
Hook it! You will not be missed.
Off! off! well-hissed!
Foot it featly anywhere,
So I've not your burden here.