“Hell pershue you, you ould sinner, can't you keep the spike of your crutch out o' my stomach! If you love me tell me so; but, by the livin' farmer, I'll take no such hints as that!”
“I'm a pilgrim, an' don't brake my leg upon the rock, an' my blessin' an you!”
“Oh, murdher sheery! my poor child'll be smothered!”
“My heart's curse an you! is it the ould cripple you're trampin' over?”
“Here, Barny, blood alive, give this purty young girl a lift, your sowl, or she'll soon be undhermost!”
“'Och, 'twas on a Christmas mornin'
That Jeroosillim was born in
The Holy Land'——'
“Oh, my neck's broke!—the curse——Oh! I'm kilt fairly, so I am! The curse o' Cromwell an you, an' hould away—
'The Holy Land adornin'
All by the Baltic Say.
The angels on a Station,
Wor takin' raycrayation,
All in deep meditation,
All by the'——
contints o' the book if you don't hould away, I say agin, an' let me go on wid my rann it'll be worse force for you!—
'Wor takin' raycraytion,
All by the Baltic Say!”