‘Yings, yow graley yin! Suz ae rikt dheu,’ said the blue man, taking the thimble.
‘What is he?’ said Magrat. ‘They’re gnomes,’ said Nanny.
The man lowered the thimble. ‘Pictsies!’
‘Pixies, if you insist,’ said Nanny. ‘They live up on the high moors over towards Uberwald—’
‘Ach! Bae, yon snae rikt speel, y’ol behennit! Feggers! Yon ken sweal boggin bludsuckers owl dhu tae—’
I really have no idea what he's saying. Fortunately Nanny proceeds to translate:
Nanny nodded while she listened. Halfway through the little man’s rant she topped up his thimble.
‘Ah, right,’ she said, when he seemed to have finished. ‘Well, he says the Nac mac Feegle have been forced out by the vampires, see? They’ve been driving out all the . . .’ her lips moved as she tried out various translations ‘. . . old people . . .’
‘That’s very cruel!’ said Magrat.
‘No . . . I mean . . . old races. The people that live in . . . the corners. You know, the ones you don’t see around a lot . . . centaurs, bogeys, gnomes—’
‘Yeah, right . . . driving ’em out of the country.’