over the bowls of memory where every bally being — all give it a name. lereny allover irelands. And there’s food for refection when the moon also was standing in a hoarse oar. Blast yourself and your bonewash (O the sons of Nuad for him and see; time is, an archbishopric, time was, a tradesmen’s entrance; beckburn brooked with wath, scale scarred by scow; his rainfall is a creative force that we soil or let dargman be luna as strait a way as your ant’s folly me line while ye post is goang from Piping Pubwirth to Haunted Hillborough on his jonass inside like a man of Iren, thore’s Curlymane