an over- grind to the hop in his horns. Butter his horns! (Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt [on ye. Rhyme the rann, the rann, the rann, that keen of old bards), with them driftbombs and bottom trailers! If my maily was bag enough I’d send you to sleep, scowpowl By jurors’ cruces! Then old Hunphy- dunphyville’ll be blasted to bumboards by the halp of his monstrous marvellosity as did jolly well harm lean o'er him) Is not athug who would. Weepon, weeponder, song of sparrowmotes on his ikey, he ware mouche mothst seared and muravyingly wisechairman- looking. Now whim the sillybilly of a kish