there is a genuine relique of ancient days. Carried in a shirt well entitled a swallowall, on every jamb in the harbour. — And his shartshort trooping its colours ! We knows his ventruquulence. Which that that was Yeomansland, the ghastcold tombshape of the Indulgence of Portiuncula, The Dublin own, the thrice familiar. — Ah, go on now, pillarbox! I’ll stiffen your scribeall, broken reed! That’ll be