"Arrah, masther dear, how did you get it all into your head, at all at
all?"

"Silence, boys--_tace--' conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant_.'
Silence, I say agin."

"You could slip over, maybe, to Doran's, masther, do you see? You'd do
it betther there, I'll engage: sure and you'd want a dhrop to steady
your hand, any how."

"Now, boys, I am goin' to indite a small taste of literal correspondency
over at the public-house here; you _literati_ will hear the lessons for
me, boys, till afther I'm back agin; but mind, boys, _absente domino
strepuunt servi_--meditate on the philosophy of that; and, Mick
Mahon, take your slate and put down all the names; and, upon my
soul--hem--credit, I'll castigate any boy guilty of _misty mannes_ on
my retrogadation thither;--_ergo momentote, cave ne titubes mandataque
frangas_."

"Blood alive, masther, but that's great spakin'--begar, a judge couldn't
come up to you; but in throth, sir, I'd be long sarry to throuble you;
only he's away fifteen year, and I wouldn't thrust it to another; and
the corplar that commands the ridgment would regard your handwrite and
your inditin'."

"Don't, ma'am, plade the smallest taste of apology."

"Eagh?"