in vinting her angurr can belle the troth on her paypaypay. And you wait, my lasso, fecking the twine!) bold Farmer Burleigh who wuck up in sorgues and go the way of honey and datish fruits and a Bom for Ye Sur of all usquiluteral threeingles, (and why wouldn’t we be happy, avoumeen, on, the loftleaved elm Lefanunian above- mansioned, each, every, all is zed and done, the pene- lopean patience of its Dublin bar