Well, (how dire do we thee hours when thylike fades!) all’s dalland youllow and it is to bedowern that thou art passing hence,mine bruder, able Shaun, with a twhisking of the robe, ere themorning of light calms our hardest throes, beyond cods‘ cradleand porpoise plain, from carnal relations undfamiliar faces, to theinds of Tuskland where the oliphants scrum till the ousts of Amiracles where the toll stories grow proudest, more is the pity, but for all your deeds of goodness you were soo ooft and for ever doing, manomano and myriamilia even to mulimuli, asour humbler classes, whose virtue is humility, can tell, it is hardlywe in the country of the old, Sean Moy, can part you for, oleypoe,you were the walking saint, you were, tootoo too stayer, thegraced of gods and pittites and the salus of the wake.

Ese era mi Shaun, un santo.