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"You were, Paddy an' Paddy, ma bouchal, what war you doing there, Paddy?" "Masther, sir, spake to Jem Kenny here; he made my nose bleed." "Eh, Paddy?" "I was br ingin' her a layin' hen, sir, that my mother promised her at mass on Sunday last." Paddy, can you spell Nebachodnazure for me?" "No, sir." "No, nor a better scholar, Paddy, could not do that, ma bouchal; but I'll spell it for you.
Now, Paddy, that's spelling Nebachodnazure by the science of Ventilation; but you'll never go that deep, Paddy." "I want to go out, if you plase, sir." "Is that the way you ax me, you vagabone?" "Yes, that's something dacenter; by the sowl of Newton, that invinted fluxions, if ever you forgot to make a bow again, I'll nog the enthrils out of you wait till the Pass comes in."
Silence, boys whist, all of yez, till I spell Nebachodnazure for Paddy Magouran. Listen; and you yourself, Paddy, are one of the letthers: A turf and a clod spells Nebachod A knife and a razure, spells Nebachodnazure Three pair of boots and five pair of shoes Spells Nebachodnazure, the king of the Jews.
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