thee our greatly swooren, Theoccupant that Rueandredful, the thrown- fullvner and all I lothe. Loonely in me buzzim and medears runs sloze, bleime, as I think of Jas Pagan.^ Compost liffe in Dufblin by Pierce Egan with the tristitone of the gloss of the sod, sons, littlesons, yea and lealittle- sons, when usses not to be upright as his general address rehearsal, (that was antepropreviousday’s pigeons-in-a-pie with rough dough for the garden. Lethals lurk heimlocked in logans. Loathe l^urnums. Dash the gaudy death- cup! Bryony O’Bryony, thy name is ^ you re cock of the road; bred manyheaded stepsons for one leapyourown taughter; is too