"O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right
So well's the rest to zee the zight;
I'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright."
"Your feäre," the booker cried;
"There, there," good Bloom replied;
"Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller,
Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill,
An' then the engine pank'd a-blast,
An' rottled on so loud's a mill,