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Updated: June 28, 2025
'I am goin' with th' rig'mint to-morrah, he says; an' he says, 'If ye hear iv me waitin' to pray, he says, 'anny time they'se a call f'r me, he says, 'to be in a fight, he says, 'ye may conclude, he says, 'that I've lost me mind, an' won't be back to me parish, he says.
Riprisintatives iv th' free an' inlightened press, th' pollutyem iv our liberties, as Hogan says, bright, intilligent young journalists, iver ready to probe fraud an' sham, disgeezed as waithers, is dashin' madly about, makin' notes on their cuffs. Business is suspinded. They'se no money in Wall Sthreet. It's all at th' sacred scene.
Whin he's hot, I bet ye his face looks like a fire in a furniture facthry. Whin a ma-an goes pale with r-rage, look out f'r a knife in th' back. But, whin he flames up so that th' perspi-ration sizzles on his brow, look out f'r hand an' feet an' head an' coupling pins an' rapid-firin' guns. Fitz can be ca'm whin they'se annything to be ca'm about, but he can't wait.
"Well, Snakes he fires a stove lid at me; an' I go down to th' polis station, an' says I, 'Loot, I says, 'they'se a dhrunken Indyun not votin' up near th' mills, an he's carryin' on outrageous, an' he won't let me hang me pitchers on his wall, says I. 'Vile savage, says th' loot, 'I'll tache him to rayspict th' rules iv civilization, he says.
'They'se a little priest down be th' Ninth Ward that niver was known to keep a fast day; but Lent or Christmas tide, day in an' day out, he goes to th' hospital where they put th' people that has th' small-pox. Starvation don't always mean salvation. If it did, he says, 'they'd have to insure th' pavemint in wan place, an' they'd be money to burn in another.
''Tis exthraordinney how easy it is f'r to lave off, he says. 'All ye need is will power, he says. 'I dinnaw that I'll iver put a pipe in me mouth again. 'Tis a bad habit, smokin' is, he says; 'an' it costs money. A man's betther off without it. I find I dig twict as well, he says; 'an', as f'r cuttin' turf, they'se not me like in th' parish since I left off th' pipe, he says.
Jawn, whin I read about thim poor people down in St. Looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv Hivin' without more warnin' thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an' swept to their graves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me. "But they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this.
If th' British can get over th' mud pile they win th' fight. If they can't they're done. That's all they'se to it. Mos' men, sthrongest backs, best eyes an' th' ownership iv th' mud piles. That's war, Hinnissy. Th' British have th' men.
"Well, says th' la-ad, 'they'se five thousan' in it f'r ye, he says. They had to pry Dochney off iv him. Th' nex' day a man he knowed well come to Dochney, an' says he, 'That's a fine ordhnance iv Schwartz. 'It is, like hell, says Dochney. ''Tis a plain swindle, he says.
"Ye see, Jawn," he said "'twas this way: The Jook iv Marlburrow is a young lad an' poor. Ye can't think of a jook bein' poor, but 'tis a fact that they'se many a wan iv thim that's carryin' th' banner at this minyit. Hinnissy, if he had his rights, is Jook iv Munster; an' ye know what he's got.
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