Crate Gott! - vot can dey mean to trink?"
Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vented droo de Irish shtreeds,
Dey saw vrom haus to haus,
Und gountet oop, 'pout more or less,
Vive hoondred awful rows.
"If all dese liddle vights dey waste,
Could von crate pattle pe,
Gotts! how de Fenian funds vouldt rise!"
Said Breitmann, said he.

Dey vent to see de Ridualisds,
Who vorship Gott mit vlowers,
In hobes he'll lofe dem pack again,
In winter among de showers.
"Vhen de Pacific railroat's done,
Dis dings imbrofed vill pe,
De joss-sticks vill pe santal vood,"-
Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vent to hear a breecher of
De last sensadion shtyle,
'Twas 'nough to make der teufel weep
To see his "awful shmile."
"Vot bities dat der Fechter ne'er
Vas in Theologie,
Dey'd make him pishop in his shoorsh,"
Said Breitemann, said he.