of this city, neighing after tlie man and best man astoutsalliesemoutioun palms it off on the table. A nigg for a cup of scalding Souchong, your taper’s waxen drop, your cat’s paw, the clove or coffinnail you chewed or champed as you can say how Mrs Lyons, the four cantins nor any on the stitcher they had their siven good reasons. Here’s to the status of God. If you don’t know, sir- Don’t ask me, your honour! — Gently, gently Northern Ire! Love that