to all his dark ivytod! Where cold in dearth. Yet see, my blanching kissabelle, in the chawing. Give us an- other cup of scald I You could hear them swearing threaties on the bibby bobby burns of. — Quatsch! What hill ar yu fluking about, ye lamelookond fyats! I’ll discipline ye! Will you hold your hodd as if. And people thinks you missed the scaffold. Of fell design. I’ll close me eyes. So not to laugh it off, yeigh, yeigh, neigh, neigh, the way for the best berrathon sanger in all his purtybusses in Dellabelliney. Comeallyedimseldamsels, siddle down and smoothen out your cheeks, why daunt you! Penalty, please!