The curse of my curses

Seven days every day

And seven dry Thursdays

On you, Barney Kiernan,

Has no sup of water

To cool my courage,

And my guts red roaring

After Lowry’s lights.

So he told Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could hear him lapping it up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another.

I will, says he, a chara, to show there’s no ill feeling.

Gob, he’s not as green as he’s cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap’s