"An' so th' gr-reat ivint come off. I won't describe it to ye. It's been done betther thin I cud do it be a fearless press. Ye know ye'ersilf how th' pro-cission winded its way through th' sthreets; how Wistminsther Abbey was crowded with peers an' peeresses, an' what a mighty shout wint up fr'm Willum Waldorf Astor whin he come in an' sat on his hat near th' dure. It was all right. First come th' prelates backin' to'rd th' althar. Thin all th' jooks bowin' low. Thin th' queen, attinded be a bevy iv American duchesses. Thin th' king lookin' ivry inch a king--sixty-four be sixty-two in all. Thin th' Rile Shoes, th' Rile Socks, th' Rile Collar an' Cuffs, an' th' Rile Hat borne be th' hereditary Sockbearers, Shoesters, Collariferios, an' th' High an' Magnificint Lid-Lord (in chains). Suddenly all is silent. A hush falls on th' assimblage, broken on'y be a low, sad cry. Willum Waldorf Astor has fainted. "An' so, says th' pa-aper, in th' prisince iv th' mighty dead an' th' mighty near dead, among th' surroundings that recalled th' days iv shivaree an' in an atmosphere full iv aristocratic assocyations, on account iv th' vintilation bein' poor, Albert Edward Ernest Pathrick Arthur, king, definder iv th' faith, put on his hat. Th' organ pealed off a solemn peal, th' cannons boomed, th' duchesses et hard-biled eggs out iv a paper bag, an' a pale man in silk tights wept over th' tomb iv Major Andhre. It was Joseph Chote. That night all Great Britain rejoiced, fr'm wan end iv Ireland to th' other th' lile popylace showed their joy an' th' sky was lit up be hundherds iv burnin' barns an' a salute iv forty-four guns was fired in th' County Kerry at a landlord's agent comin' home fr'm a ball.