'Hair so brown,' that's what the song says.

Shorty, we got more feelin' for our ears than to let you go on singin' an' showin' your ignerance.

G'wan back to the kitchen!" Kilrain drew a long breath, regarded Lawlor again with that considerate, expectant eye, and then turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Back to Bard came fragments of tremendous cursing of an epic breadth and a world-wide inclusiveness.
"Got to do things like this once in a while to keep 'em under my thumb," Lawlor explained genially.
With all his might Bard was struggling to reconcile this big-handed vulgarian with his mental picture of the man who could write for an epitaph: "Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew.

She chose this place for rest." But the two ideas were not inclusive.
He said aloud: "Aren't you afraid that that black-eyed fellow will run a knife between your ribs one of these dark nights ?" "Who?
My ribs ?" exclaimed Lawlor, nevertheless stirring somewhat uneasily in his chair.

"Nope, they know that I'm William Drew.