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He's down til "Jamesy's Place," Wid a bran'-new shave upon 'um, an' the fhwhuskers aff his face; He's quit the Section-Gang last night, and yez can chalk it down There's goin' to be the divil's toime, sence Chairley Burke's in town.
'Don't ye like it? says he, edging round; 'I'll change it for ye, then. Ter'ble perlite he was. 'Like it? says I, 'it looks as if it were built of dog's hair and divil's wool, kicked together by spiders; and it's coarser than Irish frieze; three threads to an armful, says I." This was evidently one of the captain's favorite stories, for we heard an approving grumble from the audience.
"An' drinkin' the divil's chlorides from the tins of the mangy dhromedairy has turned me insides into a foundry. I'm metal-plated, Coolin." "So ye'll need if ye meet the Subadar betune the wars!" "Go back to y'r condinsation, Coolin.
"Jist remember Game Boy; see, ye can't forget a big bay wit' a white nigh fore leg, an' a bit rat-tailed. Yes, Game Boy's all right," monologued Mike; "but here's a better; this is Diablo. He must have tabasco in his head, fer he's got the divil's own timper.
They all hurried away save Fernando, who, overcome by too deep potations, sank upon a sofa temporarily unconscious. He was roused from his stupor by his companion shaking him and saying: "Fernando, me boy, it's a divil's own mess ye are makin' of this! Wake up and get out!" He roused himself and looked about.
"Troth, thin, sur," said Margaret, with a short, dry laugh, "he 's the divil's own!" Margaret was thin and careworn, and her laugh had the mild gayety of champagne not properly corked. These things were apparent even to Mr. Bilkins, who was not a shrewd observer. "I 'm afraid, Margaret," he remarked sorrowfully, "that you are not making both ends meet."
May your heart bleed in your breast drop by drop wid all your friends laughin' at the bleedin'! Strong you think yourself? May your strength be a curse to you to dhrive you into the divil's hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you are? May your eyes see dear evry step av the dark path you take till the hot cindhers av hell put thim out!
'Whin a bad egg is shut av the Arrmy, he sings the Divil's Mass for a good riddance; an' that manes swearin' at ivrything from the Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp'ril, such as you niver in your days heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you iver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge?
The way it happened, accordin' as the corporal tould him, was jist how the Jook iv Wellington detarmined to fight a rale tarin' battle wid the Frinch, and Bonyparty at the same time was aiqually detarmined to fight the divil's own scrimmidge wid the British foorces.
"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!" "Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?" "Aye, God rest his soul." "He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' yours if ye don't help 'im." "Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace." "As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, heart an' head, aren't they?" "Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff."
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