see a trace of them or their language anywhere in Europe except in a cabinet d’aisance.

And says John Wyse:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo:

Conspuez les Anglais! Perfide Albion!

He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny strengthy hands the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal slogan Lamh Dearg Abu, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent as the deathless gods.

What’s up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner.