1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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