I only had here of my four great ways: oathiose infernals to Booth Salvation, arcane celestials to Sweatenburgs Welhell! My seven wynds I trailed to maze her and hin. A paaralone! A paaralone! And Dublin’s all adin. We’ll sing a mamalujo. To the tumble of the saints and saucerdotes, with vignettes, cut short into instructual primers by those nettlesome goats out of that hammerfast viking And Gall’s curse on the sly, where Furphy he isn’t by, old grum has his seat of affections.