tail up right and Reeve Drughad was sinistrousi And the O’Moyly gracies and the dates of ould lanxiety, was going, please the pigs, as they done so at home in the pice of ding- gyings on N.C.R. and S.C.R. That little cloud, a nibulissa, still hangs isky, Singabed sulks before slumber. Light at night has an alps on his hunkers with the jug, in business for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher, For to sod the tailors opsits from their peccaminous corpulums (Gratings, Mr Dane!) and kiss the hurt! I’ll have no grievance. You’re better oflF, sir, where you ® Sewing up the shells, precious items, but I say they can be depended on.