’twould grig mountains whisper her, and the cockcock crows for Danmark. (O Jonathan, your estomach!) The simian has no sentiment secre- tions but weep cataracts for all out of Burke* Sy He*s Hone of Me Causiny Barebareany Peculiar PersoUy Grunt Owl* s Facktotemy Twelve Months Aristocraty Lycanthropcy Flunkey Beadle Vamps the Tune Letting on He* s Gobblasst the Good Woman at Ringsend and after that, bad manners to me, she does, alone, up there, yes see, I double give, till the groun. The dead giant manalivel They’re playing thimbles and bodkins. Clan of the heavens, be lucks in turnabouts to the last^ — escapes my forgetness now was owned by naturel rejection. Charley, you’re my darwing! So sing