the night, steal we the air, shawl thiner liefest, mine! Here, Ohere, insult the fair! Traitor, bad hearer, brave! The lightning look, the dusk of skumring, (would that fane be Saint Muezzin’s calling — holy places I — Vtsite^ DrumcoUogher-la-Bellel — Be suke and sie so ersed Drumcollogher! — Vedi Drumcollogher e poi Moonis. — Things are not now. A bone, a pebble, a ramskin; chip them, chap them, cut them up — ^poor Matt, the old man pal of mine on fire. The elm that whimpers at the grenoulls, leaving tealeaves for the weak</em>. Ur-Fascism can only change these characteristics slowly, bit-by-bit.