"Och, a letthur, sir--a letthur, master; an' may the Lord grant you all
kinds of luck, good, bad, an' indifferent, both to you and yours: an'
well it's known, by the same token, that it's yourself has the nice
hand at the pen entirely, an' can indite a letter or petition, that the
priest of the parish mightn't be ashamed to own to it."

"Why, thin, 'tis I that 'ud scorn to deteriorate upon the superiminence
of my own execution at inditin' wid a pen in my hand; but would you feel
a delectability in my supersoriptionizin' the epistolary correspondency,
ma'am, that I'm about to adopt?"

"Eagh? och, what am I sayin'!--sir--masther--sir?--the noise of the
crathurs, you see, is got into my ears; and, besides, I'm a bit bothered
on both sides of my head, ever since I heard that weary _weid_."

"Silence, boys; bad manners to yez, will ye be asy, you Lilliputian
Boeotians--by my hem--upon my credit, if I go down to that corner, I'll
castigate yez in dozens: I can't spake to this dacent woman, with your
insuperable turbulentiality."

"Ah, avourneen, masther, but the larnin's a fine thing, any how; an'
maybe 'tis yourself that hasn't the tongue in your head, an' can spake
the tall, high-flown English; a wurrah, but your tongue hangs well, any
how--the Lord increase it!"

"Lanty Cassidy, are you gettin' on wid your Stereometry? _festina, mi
discipuli; vocabo Homerum, mox atque mox_. You see, ma'am, I must tache
thim to spake an' effectuate a translation of the larned languages
sometimes."