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Quoth he, "Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a chouse quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?" I.E., in old beggar's cant, "beaten a man or gallant upon the highway for the money in his purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES.
When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells. White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is.
Couch a hogshead with me then. In the darkmans clip and kiss. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. Passing now. A side eye at my Hamlet hat.
Quoth he, "Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a chouse quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?" I.E., in old beggar's cant, "beaten a man or gallant upon the highway for the money in his purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES.
Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is. VOICES: Police! DISTANT VOICES: Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire! Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns boom. Pandemonium. Troops deploy. Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoarse commands. Bells clang. Backers shout. Drunkards bawl. Whores screech. Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour.
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