I can't suffer any such profane turn in the conversation as to dispute the superiority of Irishwomen's lips, eyes, noses, and eyebrows, to anything under heaven.
We'll not talk of gay fellows; egad, we needn't.

I'll give you the garrison,--a decent present,--and I'll back the Irish bar for more genuine drollery, more wit, more epigram, more ready sparkling fun, than the whole rest of the empire--ay, and all her colonies--can boast of." "They are nae remarkable for passing the bottle, if they resemble their very gifted advocate," observed the Scotchman.
"But they are for filling and emptying both, making its current, as it glides by, like a rich stream glittering in the sunbeams with the sparkling lustre of their wit.

Lord, how I'm blown! Fill my pannikin, Charley.
There's no subduing a Scot.

Talk with him, drink with him, fight with him, and he'll always have the last of it; there's only one way of concluding the treaty--" "And that is--" "Blarney him.

Lord bless you, he can't stand it! Tell him Holyrood's like Versailles, and the Trossach's finer than Mont Blanc; that Geordie Buchanan was Homer, and the Canongate, Herculaneum,--then ye have him on the hip.
Now, ye never can humbug an Irishman that way; he'll know you're quizzing him when you praise his country." "Ye are right, Hampden," said the Scotch doctor, in reply to some observation.