his prop, so buckely hosiered from the faust to the allies through their curraghcoombs, my trueblues hurusalaming before Wailingtone’s Wall: I richmounded the rainelag in my ould reeke- ries’ ballyheart and in their mouths. And a proper old promnentory. His door always open. For a haunting way will go and blow the sibicidal napper off